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THE 

FIGHTING SCRUB 


By RALPH HENRY BARBOUR 


Yardley Hall Series 


FOURTH DOWN 
FORWARD PASS 
DOUBLE PLAY 
WINNING HIS Y 


GUARDING THE GOAL 
FOR YARDLEY 
AROUND THE END 
CHANGE SIGNALS 


Purple Pennant Series 

THE LUCKY SEVENTH THE SECRET PLAY 
THE PURPLE PENNANT 

Hilton Series Erskine Series 

THE HALF-BACK BEHIND THE LINE 

FOR THE HONOR OF WEATHERBY’S INNING 
THE SCHOOL ON YOUR MARK 

CAPTAIN OF THE CREW 


The "Big Four” Series 
FOUR IN CAMP FOUR AFOOT 

FOUR AFLOAT 


The Grafton Series 

RIVALS FOR THE HITTING THE LINE 

TEAM WINNING HIS GAME 


North Bank Series 

THREE BASE BENSON KICK FORMATION 
COXSWAIN OF THE EIGHT 


Boohs Not In Series 


THE LOST DIRIGIBLE 


FOR THE FREEDOM OF 
THE SEAS 

KEEPING HIS COURSE 
THE BROTHER OF A 
HERO 

FINKLER’S FIELD 
DANFORTH PLAYS 
THE GAME 
THE ARRIVAL OF 
JIMPSON 


UNDER THE YANKEE 
ENSIGN 

BENTON’S VENTURE 
THE JUNIOR TROPHY 

THE NEW BOY AT 
HILLTOP 


THE SPIRIT OF THE 
SCHOOL 

THE PLAY THAT WON 


OVER TWO SEAS (With H. P. HOLT) 
FOR THE GOOD OF THE TEAM 


INFIELD RIVALS 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, Publishers, New York 








t page 262 ] 


THE BALL SAILED UP AND AWAY 




THE 

FIGHTING SCRUB 


BY 

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR 

AUTHOR OF “INFIELD RIVALS,” “KICK FORMATION,” ETC. 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK :: 1924 :: LONDON 


—'3^ > 



COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

001 - 4*24 

©C1AS08166 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER p AGE 

I. The Rotter . i 

II. Getting Acquainted.12 

III. “Lovey” McKnight.22 

IV. A Boy in a Wheel Chair .... 35 

V. Out for the Team.48 

VI. Wattles.60 

VII. Mr. Babcock Takes Hold .... 73 

VIII. Mr. Bingham Pays a Visit .... 86 

IX. An “Unexpected” Honor .... 100 

X. Clif Goes for a Paper.114 

XI. Tom Is Bored.129 

XII. Defeat.139 

XIII. The Consulting Coach.150 

XIV. The Fighting Scrub.160 

XV. Tom's Luck Turns.170 

XVI. Loring Takes Command.183 

XVII. Wattles Uses Coercion.193 

XVIII. A New Play Is Tried Out .... 205 

XIX. Bad News.215 

XX. “Cocky” Makes a Call.225 

XXI. Scrub vs. Scrub.234 

XXII. The Scrub Disbands.243 

XXIII. Wyndham Plays Wolcott .... 254 

XXIV. Wattles Agrees.266 



































THE 

FIGHTING SCRUB 


CHAPTER I 
THE ROTTER 

“TT TELL, son, I guess I’d better be getting 
\/\/ along,” said Mr. Bingham. He glanced 
^ ^ frowningly at his watch and then across the 
driveway at the dusty car awaiting him. He care¬ 
fully avoided looking at the boy beside him, and for 
that the boy was very grateful. Now that the moment 
for saying good-by had come Clif’s spirits, which had 
been getting lower and lower during the past hour, had 
reached bottom, and he knew that his face revealed the 
fact. He was glad when his father went on, speaking 
with exaggerated cheerfulness which fooled neither of 
them, for there was a lump in Clif’s throat and he was 
horribly afraid that it would make his voice sound 
queer. Being only sixteen years of age, he was far 
more fearful of displaying emotion than he would have 
been of facing a firing squad, and not for anything in 
the world would he have had his father suspect the 
presence of that lump! 

i 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“It’s seventeen after two,” Mr. Bingham was con¬ 
tinuing, “and I won’t be able to make as good time as 
we did coming up, I guess. Won’t make Providence 
much before six, probably. Got to get gas somewhere, 
too. Well, I’d say you were pretty nicely fixed here, 
son: nice room, fine buildings, lots of—of grounds, eh? 
And the Doctor struck me as a particularly fine sort. 
Not at all the type of man you—er—picture as a school 
principal. Got a good business head, I’d say. 
Well—” 

Mr. Bingham looked approvingly over the scene, 
nodded commendingly and drew on his left-hand glove. 
Clif, realizing that speech was at last imperative, swal¬ 
lowed hard. “Don’t forget to have some air put in 
that left rear tire, dad,” he managed. “I think there’s 
a valve leak. It was all right when we left home.” 

His voice sounded sort of squeaky at first, he 
thought, but he had it under excellent control toward 
the last. He hoped his father hadn’t noticed anything 
wrong with it. 

“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Bingham heartily. 
“Mustn’t forget that. Don’t want to have to make a 
change on the road.” He turned down his glove at the 
wrist—he always wore just one when he drove the 
car, and never buttoned it—gave a final tug to his 
tweed cap and began the descent of the six stone steps. 
Clif followed, his brown hands thrust deep into the 
pockets of his knickers, his well-set shoulders swing¬ 
ing carelessly. Few fellows had arrived yet, but the 
car stood in plain view of many windows and it was 
2 



THE ROTTER 


up to him to affect a nonchalance he was far from feel¬ 
ing. Mr. Bingham climbed into the seat, glanced again 
at his watch and turned the switch. Clif slammed the 
door shut with a bang. Mr. Bingham pressed down 
on the starter and a low, steady hum came from under 
the long blue hood. “Well,” he said, “let’s hear from 
you often, Clifton.” 

“Yes, sir.” Clif’s cheerful grin tightened up 
harder than ever. He wondered if he would ever be 
able to get the idiotic expression off his face! His 
father’s use of his full name had almost done for him. 
Years ago, when he was just a little kid, his father 
used to kiss him when they parted; even after his 
mother’s death, when there seemed no excuse at all 
for it; but nowadays Mr. Bingham said “Clifton” in¬ 
stead, and they both understood. And now he had 
gone and done it again, and Clif’s throat felt worse than 
ever and his eyes felt smarty and—gosh, he wished 
dad would hurry up and go! 

Perhaps dad suspected further delay might prove 
dangerous, for he suddenly reached his ungloved hand 
over the top of the door and said very gruffly, “So 
long, son! Be a good chap!” And Clif returned the 
tight grasp and nodded silently, and the big touring car 
purred more loudly for an instant and swept off down 
the blue gravel driveway and in a twinkling became just 
a moving shadow between the trunks of the trees where 
the drive curved to the gate. Clifton Cobb Bingham 
watched it disappear, waved a gayly negligent hand— 
although the lone occupant of the car never once looked 
3 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


around—and then, that frozen grin still on his face, 
lounged back across the gravel to the entrance of 
West Hall. Probably, he was reflecting, not a soul 
had watched that parting, but it wouldn’t do to take 
chances, and so he played the role of stoic to the end, 
or, rather, as far as the second step. 

He was there when an object disconcertingly 
obtruded itself on his vision. It was a brown, rubber- 
soled shoe dangling from the end of an amazingly 
colorful golf hose. Clif’s gaze darted higher and his 
own fixed grin was instantly reflected. Only, whereas 
Clif’s facial contortion was designed to express ease 
and gayety, the countenance of the boy seated on the 
top step unquestionably indicated derision. The fel¬ 
low hadn’t been there when Clif had followed his 
father to the car, but he must have appeared soon after, 
for his countenance said as plainly as words could have 
said it: “You didn’t fool me! Almost cried, didn’t 
you ? Couldn’t even say good-by to him! Gee, what 
a baby! Huh!” 

Clif’s grin vanished. With one foot on the next 
step above, he stood stock still and glared back at the 
boy. He felt outraged, degraded and very, very angry. 
The other stared steadily, maliciously back at him. 
Clif’s hands closed and tightened. Then: 

“Go on,” he demanded, his voice low and tight. “Go 
on and say it!” 

The other only chuckled mirthlessly, still staring. 

“You—you confounded spy!” said Clif. “You 
might find something better to do than sneak around, 
4 




THE ROTTER 


sticking your nose into other •'oiks’ business, I should 
think !” 

The other boy’s grin faded perceptibly, but his look, 
if it held less of amusement, was still dark with malice. 
“Oh, shut up!” he answered listlessly. “Go on in and 
have a good cry. You’ll feel better.” 

“You get up from there and I’ll teach you a lesson 
in manners,” cried Clif. He plunged up the interven¬ 
ing steps and stood threateningly above his enemy. The 
latter looked up almost eagerly. 

“Mean it?” he asked. 

“Get up!” thundered Clif. 

But the momentary gleam of animation faded in 
the face below and the boy shook his head. “Can’t be 
done,” he said regretfully. “I’ve got a date with one 
of the instructors at two-thirty, and it’s twenty-eight 
after. How about to-morrow ?” 

“To-morrow!” jeered Clif. “You’re scared!” 

“You bet I am, but not of you,” answered the other 
dispiritedly. “I’m scared of Mr. Wyatt. Met him 
yet?” 

Clif shook his head, suspiciously. “No, but what’s 
he got to do with—with you getting your nose 
punched?” 

“Plenty,” was the gloomy reply. “He’s the Eng¬ 
lish shark here, and he’s going to give me the third 
degree and tell me whether I stick around or beat it 
home again. I’m a total loss at English. This Wyatt 
guy’s the old man’s nephew or something and he’s a 
tartar, they say. Well, figure it out for yourself. 
5 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


I’m going to be up against it, anyway, but if I bust 
in on him all smeared up with your gore it’s going to 
make it a heap worse, isn’t it?” 

Clif scowled in puzzlement. His wrath was melting 
fast, and the fact made him feel rather ridiculous. He 
unclenched his hands, thrust them into his pockets and 
summoned a note of contempt. “I hope he kicks you 
out,” he declared. But the words lacked conviction. 
The fact was that the strange chap, in spite of his be¬ 
havior and in spite of the detestation in which Clif 
held him, sort of worked on your sympathies! Now 
he nodded agreement. 

“Yes, I guess maybe that would be best,” he said. 
He arose slowly, with a deep sigh, and stared morosely 
over the wide stretch of lawn that, beyond a single 
formal bed of scarlet geraniums and coleuses, led from 
the school building to the village road. Clif watched 
him frowningly. A straight bodied, finely built chap, 
and, to an unprejudiced observer, extremely good-look¬ 
ing, with hair that held a glint of bronze where the 
sun reached it, deeply tanned skin, dark gray eyes, a 
short nose and a rather assertive chin. If, thought 
Clif, the fellow wasn’t such a rotter— 

Then the rotter turned and looked moodily at him. 
“You might wish me luck, you know.” 

Clif laughed ironically. 

“Because,” the other went on as he moved toward 
the wide doorway, “if he turns me down I’ll be out 
of this dump in an hour. If he doesn’t I’ll see you 
in the morning. By the way, where do I find you?” 

6 





THE ROTTER 


“I’m in 17 West Hall, and my name’s Bingham.” 

“My name’s Kemble. Glad to know you. Well, see 
you again.” 

He straightened his shoulders in the manner of a 
condemned man starting for the gallows and disap¬ 
peared indoors. Clif looked after him, frowning in 
puzzlement for an instant, and then followed. Beyond 
the reception room a wide flight of slate stairs curved 
to the second floor, and up it Clif made his way, his 
footsteps arousing tiny echoes in the silent building. In 
the second floor corridor one or two doors stood open, 
but so far he had the Hall almost to himself. His door 
was the fourth on the right. On the oaken panel was 
an oval disk of white enamel bearing the number 17. 
Beneath it were two small brass slots, in one of which 
a somewhat yellowed visiting card indicated that Mr. 
Walter Harrison Treat dwelt within. Mr. Treat was 
not within at present, however, for when Clif swung 
the door shut behind him he was the sole occupant of 
the room. 

His father had thought well of the apartment, but 
Clif was not so pleased with it. It was large enough 
and nicely furnished, but, although it contained two 
windows, it was on the inner side of the building, close 
to the angle formed by the junction of West and Middle 
Halls, and the view was confined to the courtyard. At 
Wyndham everything save the gymnasium was under 
one roof, an advantage emphasized by the school ad¬ 
vertisements. The original structure, now known as 
Middle Hall, formed the nucleus of the present plant. 

7 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Within a year or two of each other, East Hall and 
West Hall had been erected to connect with either end 
of the old building. The three halls formed as many 
sides of a quadrangle, with the opening toward the 
front and the space between affording a seldom used 
approach to Middle Hall flanked by turf and shrubbery. 
This space was Clif’s outlook from Number 17. The 
grass was smooth and well kept, the shrubs neatly 
trimmed, the blue gravel newly raked, but Clif won¬ 
dered if one wouldn’t get a bit tired of that restricted 
view after a while. Of course, it was possible to look 
up and see blue sky above the slate roof of the opposite 
Hall; and three pigeons, sunning themselves and con¬ 
versing throatily across the way, offered momentary in¬ 
terest; but Clif would have preferred a wider outlook. 
Besides, since the windows faced the east, the room 
promised to be rather dark after midday. In fact, 
away from the windows it was already shadowed. 

In the shrubbery along the farther side of the court¬ 
yard a gang of noisy sparrows were chasing each other 
about, plump, truculent roisterers who squabbled and 
fought for no apparent reason. Beyond them the ivy 
along the lower wall of the three-story stone building 
was still green and varnished looking. Some of the 
ambitious tendrils were well above the second line of 
windows over there. Clif’s gaze wandered toward the 
front of the building and was captured by a moving 
flash of color at an open window. It was a bit of 
yellow silk curtain that swayed beyond the frame in 
the stirring of a languid breeze. Clif was viewing that 
8 



THE ROTTER 


window at an angle, but the room beyond was flooded 
by sunlight and so much of it as was within his range of 
vision was visible in detail. He could see the end of 
a couch tapestried in blue and brown, the corner of a 
bookcase, a picture on a wall. But what interested him 
far more was the object that occupied most of the fore¬ 
ground. 

That object was his late adversary, Kemble. Even 
across the width of the courtyard Clif read in attitude 
and countenance dejection and perplexity. It wasn’t 
difficult for the observer to complete the scene from 
imagination. Kemble was seated at one side of a 
table. Across from him, wearing, doubtless, a look 
of stem yet patient displeasure, sat the Mr. Wyatt of 
whom he had so feelingly spoken. In short, Clif was 
viewing his enemy in the throes of an inquiry into his 
knowledge of English! 

For the moment Clif’s emotion was one of unmixed 
delight. Retribution had overtaken the hated foe! 
Then, however, his feeling of triumph waned—gave 
way before a faint stirring of sympathy. Even if the 
fellow was a blighter he deserved some pity under 
such conditions, and, besides, simple esprit de corps 
demanded that Clif should align himself on the side 
of the oppressed fellow student rather than with that 
enemy body the Faculty! For a minute longer he 
looked and then turned away. To-morrow, he told 
himself, he would hold Kemble to strict accountability, 
but meanwhile he was “rooting” hard for that suffer¬ 
ing youth and for the confusion of the tyrant. 

9 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Away from the window, he gave his attention to the 
room and its possibilities. It was furnished with two 
metal beds, two fumed-oak chiffoniers, four chairs, of 
which two were straight-backed and two of the variety 
known as morris, and a good-sized study table. There 
was, besides, a cushioned bench under each window. 
The prevailing color was brown. The furniture was 
dark brown, the walls were light brown and a heavy 
brown linoleum covered the floor. On the latter were 
spread three medium brown rugs with dark blue bor¬ 
ders. Only the ceiling of creamy white and the bed¬ 
spreads of a chalkier hue offered relief from the gen¬ 
eral scheme. Even the side curtains at the windows 
and the corduroy of the seat cushions were brown. 
On the whole, though, the room was rather pleasing, 
save for the single exception of lack of light, and, when 
Clif had switched the electricity on, even that failing 
disappeared. The two closets, one at each side of the 
door, were of generous size and held such conveniences 
as a shelf for shoes, a rod for hangers and a trousers 
rack on the door. Oh, he guessed it wasn’t so bad, 
after all! 

And at the moment of reaching this conclusion there 
was a commotion at the front of the building, telling 
him that the first wholesale influx of students had 
begun. There was the sound of voices, the chug chug¬ 
ging of motors, the thud of bags. Then came the 
shuffle of feet on the stone stairs, and laughter and 
whistling. Don turned off the illumination, wondering 
if Walter Harrison Treat had arrived with the present 
io 





THE ROTTER 


contingent. Naturally, he felt some curiosity about 
Mr. Treat. There were voices in the corridor now, 
and doors opened and banged shut. Clif retreated to a 
window seat, took one foot in his hands—noting ap¬ 
provingly that the brown leather shoe chimed in har¬ 
moniously with the surroundings—and waited. Then 
the door of Number 17 opened, swinging inward 
leisurely and with a certain dignity, and the end of an 
immaculate black suit case came into sight. 




CHAPTER II 
GETTING ACQUAINTED 
BOY of seventeen followed the suit case, and 



the first occupant of Number 17 sighed with 


-*■ relief. Walter Harrison Treat looked more 
than possible as a roommate. He was fairly tall, rather 
thin, wore excellent but unobtrusive clothes and ob¬ 
served Clif with sober inquiry through a pair of spec¬ 
tacles. Being made with a very light gold frame, the 
spectacles were not especially apparent, and a second 
relieved sigh escaped Clif. It would have been a hor¬ 
rible thing had Treat worn those staring, tortoise-shell 
contraptions. Clif was certain he could never live 
through the school year with a pair of mandarin spec¬ 
tacles ! 

They shook hands, Clif with warmth, Walter with 
a polite reserve that the other soon learned to be natu¬ 
ral with him. Then they talked, carefully avoiding 
apparent interest in each other’s affairs. Even so, 
however, certain facts regarding Walter were laid bare. 
He lived in Boston. Well, not exactly in Boston, you 
understand, but just outside; West Newton, to be exact. 
This was his third year here. He had entered as a 
Junior. Last year he had roomed in East Hall. He 
thought he might like this better, as it seemed quieter. 
Over there, the Juniors had the first and second floors 


12 


GETTING ACQUAINTED 


and were a noisy lot. He was a third classman this 
year. By rights he should be in the second class, but 
he had begun school late, owing to illness when he was 
thirteen. What did Clif think of the school? 

Presently they selected beds, closets, chiffoniers, 
window seats and chairs at the study table, choosing 
alternately after Clif, at Walter’s insistence, had spoken 
first. Then Clif started unpacking, and Walter, whose 
trunk had not yet arrived, took himself off to report at 
the Office. Twenty minutes sufficed to transfer the 
contents of trunk and bag to drawers and closet, and 
then, since Walter had not returned, Clif slipped his 
coat on again and went downstairs. The scene below 
had changed since he had last viewed it. Boys congre¬ 
gated thickly about the Office, wandered in and out of 
the recreation room, and liberally sprinkled themselves 
over the steps outside. Clif went out and perched him¬ 
self near the bottom of the flight. It was not so warm 
now. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to 
four. His father would be somewhere about Hartford, 
he guessed; that is, barring trouble with that soft tire. 
He hoped there had been no trouble, for his father 
usually left tire changing to him. Clif smiled. He 
guessed his father would make pretty hard work of 
putting on a new tire! Then the smile faded. He was 
going to miss his father a good deal, he told himself. 
They had been together so much, that it seemed strange 
to think that he wasn’t to see him again for a fortnight. 
He guessed his father would miss him, too. Maybe it 
was going to be harder for dad than for him! 

13 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


He wondered why he had decided on Wyndham, 
when there were so many schools near home which he 
could have attended as a day student. Well, that was 
just the reason, wasn’t it? They had both thought it 
would be better if he went far enough away so that he 
would get the benefit of school life. “You pick the 
place yourself, son,’’ Mr. Bingham had said. “I don’t 
care what the price is, only see that you get your 
money’s worth.” And so, after months of indecision 
during which he had perused a veritable library of 
prospectuses and catalogues, Clif had chosen the John 
Wyatt Wyndham Preparatory School for Boys for no 
better reason than that while looking through the pro¬ 
gram of last year’s Brown and Dartmouth game he 
had paused at a half-tone picture of a clean, earnest 
looking youth in football togs and idly read the lines 
beneath it: 

“E. W. Langley, Jr., End. Class of 1923, age 21, 
weight 169, height 5 ft. 11 in. Cooperstown, N. Y. 
Prepared at Wyndham School.” 

Clif had watched “Wuzzy” Langley play football, 
and “Wuzzy” had become very close to hero size in 
Clif’s estimation, and it seemed to him that a school 
that could turn out fellows like “Wuzzy,” fellows who 
played wonderful football and whose names were 
synonymous with all that was clean and healthy and 
manly, was exactly the school he was looking for. 
That evening he told his father that he had decided 
14 




GETTING ACQUAINTED 


on a school, and Mr. Bingham, after learning his rea¬ 
son for choosing Wyndham, gravely agreed that he 
had undoubtedly made a wise selection. If Mr. Bing¬ 
ham was secretly amused he didn’t show it. So Clif 
wrote for literature and studied it interestedly. Even 
if the description and pictures sent to him had been 
disappointing he would still have gone to Wyndham, 
but they weren’t. On the contrary, what he read in¬ 
creased his enthusiasm, and after that, until he received 
assurance from “J. Coles, Secretary,” that he had been 
admitted, he was on tenterhooks. 

It wasn’t until close to the time for departure that 
the thought of being separated from his father began 
to dampen his pleasure of anticipation. There were 
days, toward the last, when he would have backed down 
had Mr. Bingham given him the slightest encourage¬ 
ment. Keeping on at high school seemed plenty good 
enough then. But Mr. Bingham kept on smiling cheer¬ 
fully and the fatal day grew nearer and nearer and— 
then one September morning they were speeding off 
in the car, Clif’s trunk in the tonneau, and the die was 
cast. 

Clif’s somewhat doleful reminiscences were broken 
into by the tooting of a motor horn down the drive, 
and a big blue bus rolled past to East Hall and dis¬ 
gorged nearly a score of very small, very noisy boys. 
“The infant class has arrived,” said a youth behind 
Clif. A second bus paused at West Hall and a dozen 
or so older fellows went crowding past, bag laden, 
exchanging greetings. A load of trunks passed around 
15 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


the side of the wing. The tall clock in the reception 
room chimed out four o’clock. Another automobile, 
a hired vehicle, crowded to the steps and four more 
laughing, sun-browned fellows piled out of it and 
dragged suit cases and bags to the gravel while one of 
the number haggled amusingly with the driver. When 
the new arrivals had disappeared inside Clif remem¬ 
bered Kemble and wondered if that objectionable youth 
had been released from his session with Mr. Wyatt, 
and, if he had, whether he was even now preparing 
for his exodus. Judging from the expression Clif had 
seen on his face, Kemble’s chance of remaining at 
Wyndham was mighty slim! Well, Clif guessed the 
school would be well rid of him. Fellows who hadn’t 
the common decency to mind their own affairs and— 
and didn’t know any better than to sit and gloat over 
another chap’s—another chap’s—well, embarrassment, 
weren’t wanted at a school like Wyndham. No, sir! 
Only—well, when you came to think of it, it was sort of 
tough to get turned down like that. And the fellow was 
kind of nice looking, too; and there had been some¬ 
thing about him. Sort of—sort of appealing. Or—or 
something. Oh, well, Clif didn’t wish him any ill luck. 
If they let him stay it wouldn’t make any difference to 
Clif. There’d be room enough for both of them in a 
school that looked after a hundred and ninety fellows! 

Presently he got up and climbed the stairs again to 
Number 17. Walter Treat’s trunk had arrived and he 
was unpacking. Clif sat down on a window seat and 
16 




GETTING ACQUAINTED 


watched. Walter was astonishingly methodical and 
particular. It took him many minutes to dispose of a 
couple of dozen collars to his liking in the left-hand 
top drawer of his chiffonier, and he rearranged his five 
pairs of shoes exactly three times along the bottom 
shelf of his closet. Clif began to wonder if he was 
going to like Walter Treat, after all. Conversation 
was desultory, consisting mainly of questions from Clif 
and answers from Walter. The latter was parsimoni¬ 
ous of information, then and ever after. It seemed to 
be Walter’s philosophy to never offer anything not 
asked for and then to give as little as possible of it. 
But by dint of requestioning Clif managed to elicit 
information regarding school customs and rules which 
he stood in need of; information regarding the hours 
for meals, the location of class rooms, the time of 
rising and so on. With his father—they had reached 
Freeburg at half-past twelve and had luncheon at the 
Inn before proceeding to the school—Clif had been 
conducted through the buildings by one of the faculty 
and had everything shown and explained. But there 
were certain details that Mr. Frost, Latin instructor 
and Assistant to the Principal, had neglected, and it 
was these that Clif now obtained, not without difficulty, 
from Walter. 

“What sort of a chap is this Mr. McKnight?” Clif 
inquired. “He’s my adviser, you know.” 

“‘Lovey’? Not a bad sort. He’s Chem.” 

“Yes, I know, but is he—is he a young man or a 
fossil?” 


17 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“About twenty-eight, I believe. Haven’t seen him 
yet ?’’ 

“No, I’ve got a date at seven-thirty to fix up my 
schedule. I’m glad he’s youngish. And how about 
Wyatt?’’ 

“You won’t like him. ‘Alick’s’ a tartar. But you 
won’t have him more than four hours a week. He’s 
English Lit.” 

“Do you have McKnight, too?” 

“For adviser? No, ‘Cheese’ is my ‘nurse.* He’s 
French. You don’t have him until next year.” 

“Is Cheese his real name, or—” 

“Parks, Charles Parks. They call him ‘Charlie’ 
sometimes.” 

“Do they all have pet names?” asked Clif. 

“Naturally. There’s ‘Old Brad’ and ‘Lovey’ and 
‘Pink’ and ‘Cocky*—and ‘Wim’—” 

“Who’s ‘Cocky’?” 

“Babcock, Physical Director and Hygiene. ‘Wim’s’ 
Head of the Junior School. It’s run separate, you 
know. Then there’s ‘The Turk’ and—” But possibly 
Walter realized that he was offering unsolicited infor¬ 
mation, for he stopped short, selected a towel from a 
neat pile in a lower drawer and made for the lavatory. 
Clif hugged a knee and watched the shadows creep 
across the courtyard. Life didn’t look promising to 
him just then. This fellow Treat—well, Clif didn’t 
believe he was going to find him just what his name 
implied. Sort of a “frozen-face,’* he seemed. Maybe 
you were like that if you came from Boston. Still, 
18 




GETTING ACQUAINTED 


there had been a corking chap at the beach last month 
who had hailed from the Hub, too. Too bad he wasn’t 
to have Benson for a pal instead of Walter Treat. 
Even that cheeky Kemble was more—more human, 
Clif grudgingly acknowledged. He got up and sent a 
difficult look toward Mr. Wyatt’s window. It was 
empty now and the room was full of shadows. His 
watch proclaimed four-forty. There remained, then, 
an hour and twenty minutes before dinner—no, supper. 
Funny scheme, having supper in the evening and dinner 
at midday. He didn’t suppose he was going to like that 
at first. Well, there were probably plenty of other 
things he wouldn’t like any better! He guessed there 
wasn’t any school that was as nice as a fellow’s own 
home. Thinking of the square, brick house back in 
Providence made him feel decidedly unhappy. Pretty 
soon—well, not yet, but in another two or three hours 
—the lights would come out all over the city, and from 
the window of his room up there on the hill it was like 
looking down on fairyland. Sophie would be trotting 
to the front door about now, looking for the evening 
paper. She always got it first and took it back to the 
pantry and read the love story and the beauty hints 
before any one else could get hold of it. And pretty 
soon dad would come walking up the hill, the Boston 
financial paper held in one gloved hand, his silver- 
knobbed stick in the other—no, he wouldn’t either; not 
this evening. Clif looked at his watch again. His 
father ought to be somewhere around Willimantic now; 
maybe further; he had a way of “stepping on it” when 
19 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


the road was clear that was a caution! Clif wished 
mightily that he was in that softly purring car this 
minute! 

Walter came back, looking annoyingly virtuous for 
having washed up, and Clif said he guessed he’d walk 
around a bit. He would have been glad if Walter had 
offered to accompany him, as little as that youth’s 
society would have appealed to him under other cir¬ 
cumstances, but Walter didn’t offer. He just said 
“Yes,” in that irritatingly noncommittal way of his. 
Clif took up his cap and went out and down the stairs 
and so, presently, into the late sunshine. Well, it was 
a heap better than that gloomy room, he told himself, 
and the threatened attack of homesickness disappeared. 
He walked down the drive and out at the wide gate at 
the corner of the grounds and on to Oak Street. He 
knew it was Oak Street because a neat sign told him 
so. The village proper began a block south with com¬ 
fortable if unpretentious residences that presently 
merged into the business district. The hotel, the Free- 
burg Inn, at which they had eaten a very satisfactory 
luncheon, was across the wide, elm-shaded street. 
Beyond it was a short block of two-story brick store 
buildings; a busy, modern looking drug store, a hard¬ 
ware emporium with one window devoted to football 
and other sporting goods, a dry goods store, a grocery 
displaying a colorful array of canned fruit, a real- 
estate and insurance office. There were more stores on 
the other side, and then, at the corner, the Town Hall; 
and the library beyond that, where the street branched 


20 




GETTING ACQUAINTED 


and a tiny patch of park surrounded a memorial foun¬ 
tain. At the apex of the junction a small fire house 
offered, through a wide doorway, an arresting glimpse 
of red paint and shining brass. Clif paused to look 
in at the apparatus, wondering why an alarm of fire 
never came in while a fellow was on hand to get the 
benefit of it! Beyond the fire house more residences 
bordered the quiet stretch of recently sprinkled asphalt, 
but they offered small interest to the boy and he crossed 
to the other side of Oak Street and loitered back, stop¬ 
ping before each window until he had exhausted its 
possibilities for entertainment. He managed to kill 
more than a half hour in this wise, and got back to 
West Hall about half after five to find Number 17 
empty and dark. The room, however, looked quite 
cheerful after he had switched on the lights, and he 
got a magazine he had brought with him and read 
until a few minutes to six. He was still slicking down 
his wet hair when a gong clanged thrice somewhere 
below. He put out the lights and, suddenly aware of 
a very healthy appetite, set out for the dining hall. 




CHAPTER III 
“lovey” Mcknight 

T HE dining hall occupied the ground floor of 
the rear section of West Hall, a spacious room 
of oak beams and rough gray plaster, of pan¬ 
eled walls and many high windows. On either side, 
like soldiers on parade, eight white-draped tables were 
spaced. There was, also, a seventeenth table, but this 
was in the comer beyond the door that led to Middle 
Hall, and, whereas the other tables held twelve persons 
each, the seventeenth accommodated only Doctor Wynd- 
ham; Mr. Frost, his assistant; Miss Coles, the secre¬ 
tary; and Mrs. Flood, Junior School matron. At the 
head of each of the eight tables along the farther wall 
sat a faculty member; in Wyndham School parlance, 
a “fac”; and his surveillance included not only the 
board at which he sat but also the one directly across 
from it. Seats at tables bearing even numbers were 
much sought after since those were the ones lacking, 
as one might say, local government. Clif, though, 
wasn’t aware of good fortune when he found himself 
seated at Table 12; beyond, that is, the good fortune 
of being provided a place where food was supplied. 

There was nothing especially remarkable about any 
of his table companions, he decided after furtive study. 
Many of the eleven were of about his own age; three 
22 


“lovey” Mcknight 


or four were older. One of the latter sat at the head 
of the board, a broadshouldered, athletic-looking fel¬ 
low of possibly eighteen with good features and a 
pleasant, crisp voice. He didn’t talk much, however. 
Clif mentally catalogued him as a person of impor¬ 
tance, probably a football or crew captain. The boy 
on his right was thin and nervous and ate a great deal. 
The one on his left was neither thin nor nervous, but, 
or so it seemed to Clif, equally heroic with the food. 
Directly opposite sat a short youth with a large, square 
head and hair that grew erect and was very thick and 
coarse and black. This youth had table manners never 
learned from any book of etiquette, Clif thought. It 
was evident that the members of Table 12 were not 
yet well acquainted, for conversation was neither gen¬ 
eral nor frequent. Clif applied himself diligently to 
the matter of satisfying his appetite, finding more food 
than sufficient and of an excellent quality; then, having 
finished, made his way out again. 

His course took him around the end of Table 10, 
and as he passed he was surprised to find himself 
spoken to. “Hi, Bingham,” said a voice. Clif looked, 
expecting to see Walter Treat, but the boy who had 
spoken, seated at the farther side of the table, was 
Kemble. He waved the half of a muffin and followed 
his hail with: “Wait around, will you? I want to 
speak to you.” Clif nodded and went on. So, it ap¬ 
peared, Kemble had survived the ordeal after all! 
Probably he wanted to arrange about that scrap in the 
morning. Evidently he was a man of his word and 

23 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


didn’t intend to attempt a back-down. Clif followed 
some other fellows along the corridor, past the reading 
room and library on one side and the offices on the 
other, and reached the recreation room. The place ap¬ 
peared pretty well filled, but, after a moment’s hesi¬ 
tation at the doorway, he saw that there were still 
vacant seats along the leather-cushioned bench that fol¬ 
lowed the walls from door to great stone fireplace. He 
picked his way between the chattering groups and found 
a place by one of the front windows and looked about 
him. 

The recreation room was a big square apartment 
filled with chairs and couches and game tables. Already 
several games of chess or checkers were in progress, 
and Clif wondered how the players could put their 
minds on their problems with such a din of talk and 
laughter going on about them. There was one huge 
table in the center of the room, and from it half a 
dozen fellows swung their feet and took part in a loud 
discussion with the occupants of several clustered chairs. 
Clif couldn’t make out what the subject under consid¬ 
eration was, because they all talked at once, but it was 
undoubtedly important since several of the assemblage 
were gesticulating excitedly and getting quite red of 
face. Clif watched for a minute or two and then 
turned his gaze to a checker battle being waged a few 
feet distant between two absorbed and silent opponents. 
He had become quite interested in it when some one 
squeezed down beside him on the bench and claimed his 
attention. 


24 



lovey” Mcknight 


“Well, I didn't have any luck,'’ announced Kemble. 

“How do you mean? Aren't you going to stay?” 
Clif took pains to keep all trace of interest from his 
voice. 

“That’s it,” replied Kemble. “I am. Wyatt said he 
ought to turn me down, but that that would be too easy 
on me. Said he was going to pass me and devote the 
next three years to letting light in on the dark places. 
Or something insulting like that. Anyway, I’ve got 
to stay.” 

“But don’t you want to?” asked Clif, surprised. 

Kemble shook his head gravely. “I don't know. Of 
course I did want to when I came, but Wyatt got me 
scared so I was dead sure I couldn’t, and so I had it all 
planned to go back home. And now he's gone and 
double-crossed me and I’ve got to—to readjust myself, 
so to say. Isn’t that the dickens ?” 

Clif eyed the other suspiciously. “I guess you’ll live 
through it,” he said coldly. “What class are you?” 

“Third. You, too, I suppose.” 

Clif nodded. “Funny you being shy on English. 
The course doesn’t look hard in the catalogue.” 

“Oh, I don’t suppose it’s hard. I just never got up 
much interest in those guys that wrote literature. I’m 
pretty fair on math and Latin and history and the rest 
of the junk, though. Well, I’ll just have to make the 
best of it, I suppose. Got your schedule fixed up yet?” 

“No, I’m to see Mr. McKnight at half-past seven.” 

“We’ll probably get the same hours, mostly,” mused 
Kemble. “Fellow sufferers, we twain!” 

25 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Gee, if you don’t want to study or anything, what 
did you come here for?” demanded Clif impatiently. 

“Thunder! You don’t suppose I came because I 
wanted to, do you?” asked Kemble incredulously. “I 
wanted to stay where I was, at Morristown. I was 
dead sure of the First Team this fall, too, hang it!” 

“Where’s Morristown, and what First Team do you 
mean?” 

“New Jersey, of course. High School Team. I’d 
made the backfield certain if I’d been there. I nearly 
did it last year.” 

“Well, you can play football here, can’t you?” 

“Yes, and you can jump out the third-story window, 
but that doesn’t mean you’re going to fly! A swell 
chance I’d have to make the team here, Bingham! Oh, 
well!” 

“I guess it’s just a question of playing well enough. 
I’m going to try, anyhow.” 

“That so? Played much? What school?” 

“I haven’t played much, no,” answered Clif, “but I 
mean to. I played on our Second Team last fall, but 
just as a sub. I was too light. I’ve put on eight or 
ten pounds since then, though.’’ 

“Back?” 

“End.” 

“Half back’s mine. Still, I’d play—play center if 
they’d let me! Best you and I’ll make, though, is a 
class team or a hall team, or whatever they have here. 
Well, if the old high school gets licked this year it’ll 
be Wyatt’s fault.” 


26 




" lovey " Mcknight 


Clif laughed, and then, remembering that here was 
an enemy, he froze up quickly. “I guess it would 
worry him to know that,” he remarked with immense 
sarcasm. “Look here, Kemble, how about to-morrow ? ?> 

“To-morrow?” Kemble looked blank. 

“Yes, to-morrow,” answered Clif sternly. “You 
needn’t pretend you’ve forgotten.” 

“Oh, that! I really had forgotten, though; give you 
my word, Bingham. Why, any time you say. That 
is, if you really want to go on with it.” 

“I certainly do,” answered Clif emphatically. “Un¬ 
less,” he added after an instant, “you care to apologize.’’ 
He hoped, when he had said it, that his tone hadn’t 
sounded as eager to Kemble as it had to him! 

“Apologize? Sure! Why not?” replied the other 
readily. “That’s much the best way, eh? You know, 
I’m about a dozen pounds heavier than you, old scout, 
and a couple of inches taller, too, and I guess—here, 
put your arm out.” Clif obeyed and Kemble tucked 
his fingers under the other’s armpit. “Just as I thought. 
I can outreach you by two inches.” 

“That makes no difference,” declared Clif warmly. 
“You said you’d fight me—” 

“Yes, I know,” broke in Kemble soothingly, “but 
I’ve apologized, haven’t I?” 

“No, you haven’t. You merely said you were will¬ 
ing to. 

“Oh, gosh, why the formality? All right, though. 
I apologize, Bingham, for—I say, what the dickens do 
I apologize for?” 


27 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


His perplexity was so genuine that Clif’s severity 
relaxed in spite of himself. It was, he decided, no use 
trying to stay angry with this chap, and having reached 
that decision he felt much relieved, and laughed frankly 
at the puzzled Kemble. Whereupon Kemble’s brow 
cleared and he grinned back. 

‘‘You’re a perfect ass,’ ? declared Clif indulgently. 

“No pne is perfect,” Kemble demurred modestly, 
“although some of us do come pretty close.” 

“Just the same, you were a good deal of a rotter to 
sit there and—and make fun—” 

“Yes, I was, Bingham, and I’m sorry. I apologize, 
honestly. It isn’t much of an excuse, I know, but— 
but I wasn’t feeling very chipper myself.” 

Clif nodded. Kemble, of course, was referring to 
that session with Mr. Wyatt. Then: 

“Maybe/’ added Kemble more constrainedly, “I’ll 
tell you about it some time.” 

“Oh!” said Clif, for want of anything better. Kem¬ 
ble was staring frowningly at the nearby checker board. 
Observing him, Clif sensed a matter more serious than 
the recent English quiz. A silence that might have 
become slightly awkward in another moment was dis¬ 
pelled by the golden tones of the clock across the corri¬ 
dor. They reached Clif even above the noise of the 
room, and he sprang to his feet. “Gee! Seven-thirty! 
I’ve got to beat it, Kemble. Listen; I—” 

“Go ahead. I’m with you.” 

In the corridor, where half a dozen boys were await¬ 
ing their turns at the telephone booths outside the Office, 
28 




lovey” Mcknight 


Kemble said, “Look for me in Assembly Hall at eight, 
eh? I’ll stick around the door.” 

“Right-o!” agreed Clif, making for the stairs. 
“Wear a red carnation, will you?” 

Kemble grinned and waved. 

Although Clif reached his appointment several min¬ 
utes late he had to wait several more minutes while 
Mr. McKnight disposed of a previous visitor, and he 
used the time in making an interested and approving 
examination of his surroundings. There were four 
faculty suites in each of the two dormitory buildings, 
and Mr. McKnight occupied Number 19, W., just 
around the corner from Clif’s room. Number 19, how¬ 
ever, didn’t resemble Number 17 much. The study 
was a big, nearly square room with windows on two 
sides. Back of it, visible between parted draperies of 
dark blue, was the bedroom, and from that opened a 
bathroom of white tiling and gleaming nickel. But it 
was the study that enthralled Clif. Everything about 
it was so homelike and jolly. There was a small grand 
piano by the nearer window with a gorgeous silk prayer 
rug laid across it. Before the fireplace ran a huge 
couch that simply begged to be lolled in, and there was 
a shaded light behind one corner, in exactly the right 
place for reading. Rugs covered the floor, pictures— 
good ones, too, Clif was certain—peered down from 
the pleasant dimness of paneled walls, bookcases flanked 
the chimney. Here and there a deep chair; its leather 
cushion a mite shabby from honorable service, held 
forth inviting arms. Beside one, on a low stand, lay 
29 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


a blackened pipe, a magazine, opened face-down, and 
a heavy brass paper knife. For the first time Clif dis¬ 
cerned advantages in the profession of pedagogy. If a 
fellow could live in a room like this, why, gee, teaching 
wouldn’t be so bad! 

Mr. McKnight sat at the farther side of a desk table, 
the light from a green-shaded lamp cutting him off at 
the top button of his waistcoat and leaving his face in 
mellow shadow. But when Clif had taken the chair 
across the polished expanse of mahogany surface the 
instructor’s countenance was plainly visible. Mr. 
McKnight was the youngest member of the faculty, 
being but twenty-eight. Although his first name was 
Godfrey, he was popularly known as “Lovey.” The 
reason was obscure. Some said that he had brought 
the nickname with him from college, others that it had 
been conferred upon him after he had arrived at Wynd- 
ham, but none could say why. Clif didn’t consider that 
the name suited. In the first place, “Lovey” was rather 
a large man, dark haired, keen eyed and deep voiced; 
and, after that, there was nothing at all effeminate in 
his manner nor affectionate in the tone in which he 
had bade Clif exchange the chair by the door for that 
at the table. 

“Your name’s Clifton Bingham,” said Mr. McKnight 
briskly. “You’re in the Third Class.” 

Clif assented, watching the instructor take a gray 
oblong of cardboard from a drawer and begin to write 
on it. The writing was small and extremely neat and 
legible. 


30 



“LOVEY” McKNIGHT 


“You have five prescribed courses in this term, of 
a total of eighteen hours, Bingham, as I presume you 
know. I include Hygiene, two hours, and I mention 
it because formerly one didn’t get it until Second Class 
year.” His pen moved rapidly and certainly. “There 
are two other courses open to you, either of which you 
may elect if you care to. They’re both ‘snap’ courses, 
you know, Bingham, and won’t strain you any. But 
if I were you I’d leave them alone this year; at least 
until the next term. I find that you chaps have plenty 
of work if you do it right. All right. Now about 
athletics.” Mr. McKnight laid his pen down, pushed 
the gray card aside and folded his hands. “Anything 
in that line appeal to you?” 

“I’m going out for football, sir,” said Clif. 

“Good. You understand that regular participation 
in some recognized sport is demanded, and that in any 
case you are required to attend gymnasium classes un¬ 
less excused by the Physical Instructor, Mr. Babcock. 
If you are taken permanently on to one of the football 
squads you won’t have to bother with gym stuff for 
a while. See Mr. Babcock to-morrow, by the way. 
You’ll find him in his office in the gymnasium from 
nine to twelve. Or you can get him at his study in 
East Hall, probably. Better look this over and then 
put it somewhere where you can refer to it until you’ve 
got your hours memorized.” 

He indicated the schedule and Clif picked it up and, 
after a somewhat vague examination, placed it in a 
pocket. Mr. McKnight asked about his roommate, 
31 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


about his football experience and about himself, and 
Clif gradually sank back against the chair and felt 
more at ease. Mr. McKnight leaned back, too, and 
listened and watched. Clif told about Providence and 
high school and his father and, before he realized it, 
how he had decided on Wyndham School. Mr. Mc¬ 
Knight chuckled then, but it was a genial, understand¬ 
ing sort of chuckle, and Clif smiled in response, and 
after that the instructor didn't seem so awe-inspiring. 

“That,” said Mr. McKnight, “reminds me of the 
story of the boy whose father and mother wanted him 
to go to college but who wasn’t keen on it himself. His 
father wanted Jack to go to Princeton and his mother 
wanted him to go to Harvard. (You can swap the 
names around to suit yourself, Bingham. Pm a Prince¬ 
ton man, and Pm telling it the Princeton way.) Jack 
didn’t care where he went, you understand, and so, 
after his parents had argued the matter for weeks, he 
said, 'Tell you what, Dad. I’ll toss a coin. If it comes 
down heads, you win and I go to Princeton. If it 
comes down tails, Ma wins and I go to Harvard.’ So 
they agreed and Jack tossed up a quarter and when it 
fell and stopped rolling, there it was leaning up against 
the leg of a chair, straight on edge! Jack took a look 
at it and kicked it down the register. Tt’s a “dud.” 
I’ve got to go to Yale V ” 

Clif laughed, but not so heartily as he might have 
if he had not at that period been vacillating between 
Yale and Brown as a scene for future scholastic and 
athletic triumphs! 


32 




LOVEY” McKNIGIIT 


A few minutes later Mr. McKnight said, “I’d like to 
remind you, Bingham, that an adviser is one who sup¬ 
plies advice. Most fellows think his business is only 
to get them out of trouble. Well, I’m always glad to 
do all I can in that way, but you chaps ought to remem¬ 
ber that prevention is better than cure and that if you 
come here for advice you’re not likely to come back 
later for help. Just bear that in mind, won’t you? And 
bear in mind that I’ve been through just what you and 
all the rest of you are going through—and not so long 
ago, either—and know pretty well what your problems 
and temptations are. So don’t think I’m no use to you 
except to advise you about your studies. Studies, 
school work, are a small part of your life here. The 
real problems and the biggest worries are likely to con¬ 
cern your relationship with your fellows, your attitude 
toward the school, your social and athletic interests. 
Very often the smallest problems are the hardest to 
solve, Bingham. Well, when you run up against some¬ 
thing that you can’t settle to your own satisfaction come 
and see me and we’ll talk it over. Maybe we’ll find 
the answer that way, maybe we won’t; but it always 
helps to talk it over. Sort of blows the fog away. 
You’ll find me here in the evenings, generally, and 
always between five and six. And that reminds me: 
Friday evenings, after study hour, we get together here 
and have a sort of quiet shindig; talk a good deal, have 
a little music, maybe, and get acquainted. Not much 
in the way of excitement, you know, but usually a 
pleasant time is had by all. Drop in as often as you 
33 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


can, Bingham, and bring a friend with you.” Mr. 
McKnight glanced at his watch. “You've just time 
to make assembly hall before the fun starts. Good 
night. Drop in often, Bingham. You don’t have to 
wait for a Friday evening, you know.” 

Traversing the dimly lighted corridor of Middle 
Hall, past the gloomy caverns of the darkened class 
rooms, Clif was sensible of a new cheerfulness. The 
echoes aroused by the brisk tramp of his feet on the 
old, worn floor sounded almost friendly to him. 




CHAPTER IV 

A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR 

T O rea’ch the assembly hall, which occupied the 
entire first floor rear section of East Hall, 
just as the dining hall occupied the same loca¬ 
tion on the other side, Clif had to go the length of 
Middle Hall, pass into the wider corridor of the newer 
building beyond, turn left and follow the main corridor 
to the staircase. East Hall, save for a dozen rooms 
on the third floor, was devoted principally to the use 
of the Junior School, composed of boys between the 
ages of eleven and fourteen. Mr. Clendenin, known 
as “Wim” because of his invariable custom of signing 
himself “Wm. Clendenin,’’ was at the head. The 
Juniors had their own parlor, recreation room, library, 
reading room, game room and office on the ground 
floor. They ate, however, in the dining hall in West 
and shared the class rooms in Middle with the older 
students. Middle, once containing all there was of the 
school, had long since been remodeled into class rooms 
only. 

Doctor Wyndham, the Principal, occupied a suite of 
three rooms and bath on the second floor of East Hall. 
Other suites, smaller, similar to Mr. McKnight’s, were 
35 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


situate in each of the newer buildings, and accommo¬ 
dated fourteen faculty members. 

Clif descended the stairway to the first floor corri¬ 
dor. At the far end the vicinity of the assembly hall 
entrance was crowded with boys who, waiting outside 
until the last moment, had now begun to crowd through 
the wide doorway. Clif concluded that he was the last 
one to arrive, but he wasn’t, since, as he passed the open 
door of a room beyond Mr. Clendenin’s office, he was 
obliged to step quickly aside to avoid collision with a 
wheel chair which, emerging noiselessly on rubber tires, 
had given him no warning. The chair was occupied 
by a boy a year or so Clif’s senior. A dark plaid rug 
covered the lower part of his body. On a shelf stretched 
between the chair arms lay a book and a fountain pen. 
The occupant of the chair propelled it by the wheels, 
turning it deftly to avoid Clif and directing it along the 
corridor toward assembly hall. He smiled an apology 
as he did so. Noting that he was obliged to lean for¬ 
ward slightly to grasp the wheels, or, rather, a rim that 
projected from them for the purpose of propulsion, 
Clif said impulsively: 

“Let me be chauffeur, won’t you ?” 

The boy in the chair looked back and smiled again. 
“Why, thanks. I’m just going to the assembly hall, 
and it really isn’t hard, but if you don’t mind giving 
me a shove—” 

“Glad to,” said Clif heartily. 

By the time they had reached the door the throng 
had thinned to a few embarrassed, giggling juniors, 
36 




A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR 


and, at the other’s request, Clif wheeled the chair just 
inside the portal. Doctor Wyndham was already on 
the platform and the fellows were clapping loudly. The 
boy in the chair smiled his thanks and Clif tiptoed 
across to Tom, who had saved a seat for him in the 
rear row. 

“Who’s that fellow?” asked Tom in whispers. 

“I don’t know. I met him in the corridor.” Then, 
as the applause ceased, Clif gave his attention to the 
speaker. Doctor Wyndham was a tall, erect man of 
sixty who looked rather more like a successful business 
executive than a school principal. His hair, of which 
he had managed to retain a goodly amount, was scarcely 
more than grizzled, and his healthily tanned skin spoke 
of fine physical condition. He was extremely good 
looking and very distinguished appearing, and the 
School was proud of him. That he was the business 
man as well as the pedagogue was proved by the insti¬ 
tution of which he was the head and owner. In the 
brief space of twenty-four years he had built it up from 
nothing to one of the finest and best-known preparatory 
schools of the east. The Doctor had been a widower 
for many years and was without children. It was 
believed that, at his death, the school would go to Mr. 
Wyatt, his nephew. 

He had a wonderfully clear and resonant voice and 
enunciated each word so distinctly that, listening, one 
was likely to lose the matter of his discourse in the 
enjoyment of his delivery. Something of that sort 
occurred to Clif, for when the frequent patter of ap- 
37 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


plause broke in on the pleasant flow he usually dis¬ 
covered that he didn’t know what the speaker had just 
said. Then, too, the boy in the wheel chair interested 
Clif. He stole frequent glances across and wondered 
a good deal about him. He looked remarkably healthy, 
with a good deal of color in his cheeks and plenty of 
sparkle in his dark eyes. His hair was dark, too, almost 
black, it seemed, and was brushed straight back from 
a high forehead which, aided by a straight nose and a 
slightly pointed chin, made Clif think of the Flaxman 
profiles of ancient Greek heroes. A handsome fellow, 
Clif decided, and attractive. He had frequently heard 
the word magnetic used in reference to persons, but 
this was the first time it had ever occurred to him as 
appropriate. He concluded that he would rather like 
to know the boy in the chair 

The Principal’s talk was a good deal like a dozen or 
more other talks he had made on similar occasions. 
There was a welcome to the new students, a greeting 
to the old ones, much sensible advice on many subjects, 
a reference to athletics—and especially football, a touch 
of humor here and there and, at the last, an appeal to 
his hearers for a conscientious performance of their 
duties to themselves, their parents and the School. 
Outside, Clif hazarded the opinion that it had been a 
mighty fine talk, hoping that Tom wouldn’t call on him 
to prove it by quotations. Tom said: “Yes, but I 
didn’t get much of it. Let’s go over to the big city and 
buy some peanuts or something, Bingham. I’m 
starved!” 


38 




A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR 


“Will they let us?” 

“Why not? There’s no study hour to-night. Any¬ 
way, we won’t be gone more than ten minutes.” 

There was a light behind the windows of Number 
17 West as they passed the courtyard, and Clif pic¬ 
tured Walter Harrison Treat up there rearranging his 
shoes for the fourth time and chuckled. Kemble asked 
what the joke was and Clif explained. Kemble de¬ 
clared that Treat must be a pill, adding: “I wish you 
and I had got together, Bingham. I’m with a Second 
Class fellow named Desmond, Billy Desmond. Not a 
bad sort, but a bit snifty because he’s been around here 
a couple of years.” 

“I guess Treat feels sort of superior for the same 
reason,’’ mused Clif. 

“I don’t want to be harsh with Desmond, because 
he’s a First Team man; plays tackle, I think; and he 
might be useful. I say, you’re going out for practice 
to-morrow, aren’t you?” 

“Yes. I haven’t heard anything about it, but _ sup¬ 
pose they want candidates.” 

“Of course they do. Did you bring togs?” 

“Some old ones. I’ll get others if—it’s worth 
while.” 

“Oh, you’ll get to play somewhere. Desmond says 
there’s a lot of rivalry amongst the class teams. And 
then there’s the scrub, too.” 

“I’ll be lucky to make that, I guess. The fellows 
here look awfully big and husky, Kemble.” 

“Yes, there’s a guy at my table who must oe nine- 

39 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


teen if he’s a day, and if he doesn’t top six feet I’ll eat 
my hat! Say, I wonder if we can’t fix it to get together 
in dining hall. Suppose they’ll let us? I’ll find out 
to-morrow. There’s a fruit store over there, and I 
think I smell peanuts!” 

Going back, Kemble explained, while ne cracked pea¬ 
nuts steadily, that he hadn’t been able to do very well 
at supper. “Mental exhaustion, you know. I was all 
in when Wyatt let me go. I ought to hate that guy, 
but I don’t seem to. He surely handed me some hot 
ones, but I guess I deserved them. What’s the good 
of knowing so blamed much about the queers who 
wrote books a couple of hundred years ago? Heck, 
it’s all I can do to half keep track of the guys who are 
doing it now! Wyatt asked me to tell him what I knew 
about Scott, and I said he was a mighty clever short¬ 
stop, but I didn’t know his batting average. But, 
gosh, he wasn’t talking baseball, he was talking about 
the fellow who wrote Tvanhoe’!” 

“I saw you from my window when you were making 
some of those brilliant sallies,’’ laughed Clif, “and you 
certainly did look unhappy, Kemble!” 

“I was! Say, drop the ‘Kemble,’ win you? I’m 
generally called Tom.” 

“I like Tom better. My names Clif, short for 
Clifton.” 

“I know. I heard your father call you that. That’s 
a real classy name.” 

Clif reflected that he hadn’t thought of his father 
for a long while, and felt sort of guilty. 

40 





A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR 


“Not much style to Thomas,’’ the other was con¬ 
tinuing. “My middle name’s Ackerman. That was 
my mother’s before she married. When I was a kid 
I used to write my name T. Ackerman Kemble, but the 
fellows got on to it and called me Tackerman, and 
then Tak. Mother used to call me Tommy, but I had 
to lick a chap in school for doing it. It was all right 
from her, but I couldn’t stand for it generally.” 

“Is your mother—I mean—” 

“Yes, she died about six years ago. A man named 
Winslow is my guardian. Mother didn’t have any 
near relatives and this guy was her lawyer and so she 
stung me with him. He’s sort of a pill. I say, pipe 
the faculty chap on the steps!” 

Against the light of West Hall entrance a tall figure 
was darkly silhouetted as they came up the drive. 

“Faculty chaps are bad luck for me,” confided Tom; 
“like black cats!’’ Clif laughed uneasily. Then they 
were at the steps and he said “Good evening, sir,” as 
pleasantly as he knew how. 

“Good evening,” was the response. “Where have 
you boys been?” 

“Just looking around, sir,” answered Tom promptly. 

“What have you there?” The man indicated Tom’s 
right hand. Tom looked and replied affably: “A pea¬ 
nut, sir.” 

“Hm. What’s your name?’’ 

“Kemble, sir.” 

“And yours?” 

“Bingham, sir.” 


4i 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Well, Kemble and Bingham, it’s contrary to rules 
to go off the grounds after six o’clock. You didn’t, 
I presume, pick that peanut off any of the trees here.” 

“Oh, no, sir,” answered Tom. “I rather think they 
grow on vines.’’ 

“Your knowledge of agriculture is impressive.” 
Tom thought the instructor’s features relaxed a trifle, 
but since they were in shadow he couldn’t be certain. 
“You boys had better report to Mr. Frost in the morn¬ 
ing,” he went on. “Tell him Mr. Waltman sent you; 
and why.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Tom politely. Then, as Mr. Walt¬ 
man ascended the steps and disappeared inside the Hall, 
he added sadly: “Heck! This is a fine start, isn’t it ? 
Something tells me, Clif, that I’m not going to like this 
place!” 

Clif went up to Number 34 with Tom and met the 
“snifty” roommate and liked him a lot. Billy Des¬ 
mond was a large, good-hearted and generally smiling 
fellow of seventeen. Perhaps he was rather inclined 
just at first to use a patronizing tone with Tom and 
Clif, but he got over it before many days had passed 
and was voted a good scout by both of them. To-night 
he joked them a lot about their mishap and drew 
lugubrious pictures of the Assistant to the Principal, 
Mr. Frost, and described a variety of dire results any 
one of which might befall them. Even though he dis¬ 
counted Billy’s predictions Tom was characteristically 
pessimistic and frequently reiterated his conviction that 
he wasn’t going to be happy at Wyndham. 

42 




A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR 


Although on the third floor and on the opposite side 
of the building from Clif’s room, Number 34 was a 
replica of it. The only noticeable difference was in 
the amount of floor space. Number 34 seemed smaller. 
But Clif soon saw that this was due to a leather couch 
which, at present occupied by Billy, thrust out from 
the end of the study table like a sore thumb. It had a 
history, that couch. Billy had bought it last term from 
a departing owner who, in turn, had purchased it three 
years before from some one else. Beyond that point it 
could not be traced, but it looked every day of twenty 
years! Its brown leather covering was missing in 
many places and torn in others, and wherever this was 
the case the stuffing of tow protruded pathetically. It 
had been tufted at one time, but the buttons had long 
since disappeared. While it probably retained the same 
number of springs with which it had started, most of 
them had ceased functioning. A few had not, however, 
and it was those few which made it extremely difficult 
for the stranger to occupy the couch with any degree of 
comfort. They stuck up at unexpected places and, in 
collusion with the slippery surface of the well-worn 
leather, had deposited many an unwary visitor on the 
floor. But Billy was very fond of that relic, very 
proud of it, and was still convinced that when he had 
exchanged three dollars and twenty-five cents for it he 
had consummated a master stroke of finance. With 
the aid of two faded, lumpy pillows—thrown in with 
the couch for good measure—he occupied a sort of 
trough down the center of the antiquity and, with the 
43 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


desk light conveniently near, could read or study at 
ease. Just now, of course, he was doing neither. 

‘‘You fellows want to see ‘Cocky’ in the morning 
and take your physical exams. If you don’t you can’t 
turn out for practice. You play football, too, I sup¬ 
pose, Bingham?” Billy gave Clif an appraising look 
that held approval. Clif was tall for his sixteen years 
and, although lacking weight, didn’t look stringy. Of 
course, Billy reflected, he wasn’t First Team material 
yet, but he looked promising. He seemed alert and 
might be fast. Billy liked his clean-cut features, and 
the way his face lighted when he smiled. Rather the 
sort of fellow, he imagined, who would get along fast 
and make a name for himself at Wyndham. 

“You won’t get much more than a lot of hard work 
this year,” Billy continued when Clif had replied affirm¬ 
atively. He was addressing them both, however. 
“But you’ll be mighty glad next year that you had it. 
That is, you will if you take your medicine and don’t 
quit because you can’t be bloomin’ heroes the first 
thing! That’s going to be your trouble, likely, Tom. 
You’ll go off half-cocked some day and resign because 
the coach doesn’t pat you on the back.” 

“How do you get that way?” asked Tom indignantly. 
“Don’t you suppose they play football anywhere but 
here? I’ve played since I was twelve, and I’ve never 
quit yet, and I’ve had some raw deals, too!” 

Billy laughed. “You’re going to be a lot of fun for 
me this year, Tom,” he said. “You’ve got quite a lot 
of new stuff, son.” 


44 



A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR 


“Huh!” Tom regarded his roommate doubtfully. 
Then he grinned. “It’s going to be fifty-fifty, I guess. 
Tm not the only funny one in this room.” 

“Good lad,” approved Billy. 

They talked football for a while and Billy told about 
last year and how Wolcott had turned the tables in the 
last quarter of the big game and turned a Wyndham 
victory into a devastating defeat. “We had them all 
the way until the tag end of that period. We’d scored 
in the first and second, and booted a goal each time. 
It was all over but the shouting, you might have 
thought, for 14 to 3—they’d snitched a field-goal in 
the third—was good enough for any one, and all we 
had to do was hold them for the rest of the game. 
Then they put this chap Grosfawk in at end. No one 
had ever heard of him before around here. Our scouts 
didn’t even remember his name. They had the ball 
down on their thirty, and there was less than five min¬ 
utes of the game left. Their inside half, Cummins, 
faked a kick and tossed to this Grosfawk chap, who 
had managed to sneak pretty well across the field. It 
wasn’t an awfully long throw, and he made it slow and 
sure. Grosfawk was just about even with the scrim¬ 
mage line when he caught and when we’d nailed him 
he was three yards from our goal-line. He’d run about 
sixty-five yards, and there wasn’t a fellow on our team 
who could lay claim to having touched him! Dodge ? 
That boy invented it! And he can run like a jack 
rabbit. He’s a wonder, and why Wolcott didn’t find 
it out before that game is more than I know!” 

45 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Did they make the touchdown ?” asked Tom. 

“Yes, it took them four downs, but they finally got 
the ball over, and that put the score 14 to 10. We still 
thought we had the game, and we played for time and 
stalled all they’d let us. But, shucks, that Grosfawk 
didn’t know he was licked. Of course we laid for him 
and he got used sort of hard, but with only a couple 
of minutes left we didn’t pay so much attention to him 
as we should have. So what does he do but pull the 
same stunt? This time he only had about fifty yards 
to go, and we made him earn them by chasing him back 
and forth across the field two or three times. I nearly 
had him once myself. So did most of the others. He 
got tired of reversing the field after a while. Maybe 
he was afraid the whistle might go off by accident 
before he got the touchdown. Anyway, he streaked 
it through our whole bunch just when it seemed we 
had him, with two or three of his team interfering by 
then, and dodged our quarter and went over right 
between the posts. Well, that spilled the beans good 
and plenty. Why, we had that old game in our pocket 
five minutes before! We—we’d even spent it! I guess 
we were just about the sorriest, saddest, most dis- 
gustedest bunch you ever saw that evening!’’ 

Tom chuckled. “Good thing for you fellows Bing¬ 
ham and I came along, I guess. You need some one 
to look after you and see that those naughty Wolcott 
boys don’t steal your games. Mighty lucky, I’d say, 
they didn’t take the uniforms off you fellows when 
you weren’t looking!” 


46 




A BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR 


“You’re a cheeky cuss,” said Billy, but he laughed. 
“Well, that’s the way the battle was fit, fellows. This 
year ‘G.G.’ will probably detail a couple of fellows to 
do nothing but watch Mr. Grosfawk. If he ever gets 
loose, good-by, game!” 

“Oh, piffle,’’ said Tom. “The guy’s good, I dare 
say, but you fellows let him hypnotize you. It takes 
more than one player, no matter how good he is, to win 
a game. All you’ve got to do this year is break up 
their passing game. You must have had a slow bunch, 
I guess.” 

“Tom,” said Billy, shaking his head, “you’re a great 
little know-it-all. You come around and tell me all that 
again in a couple of months and maybe I’ll believe it. 
There’s the gong, Bingham. Better beat it. Good 
night. See you again soon, I hope.” 




CHAPTER V 
OUT FOR THE TEAM 


D ESPITE Tom’s forebodings the interview 
with Mr. Frost went off quite pleasantly the 
next morning. The Principal’s assistant 
was rather bald and wore thick-lensed spectacles, but 
he was quite a young man and did not strive to appear 
otherwise. He seemed more amused than pained by 
the explanation of the visit. 

“Tough luck, boys, to buck the rules the first night 
of the term!’’ he commented. “Of course you knew 
you shouldn’t do it?” 

Clif assured him he hadn’t known it, and Mr. Frost 
—“Homer” the school called him, that being his given 
name—turned to a page in a blue-covered booklet, 
placed a finger half-way down it and invited Clif to 
read. It was there, as plain as daylight, and Clif, who 
had perused that volume thoroughly, as he thought, 
couldn’t understand how he had missed it. As for 
Tom, the latter explained cheerfully that he had only 
looked at the pictures! Mr. Frost gravely presented 
each of them with a copy of the booklet, advising them 
to become better acquainted with the school regulations, 
and dismissed them smilingly. 

Returning to West Hall, Clif made fun of his com- 

48 


OUT FOR THE TEAM 


panion for having been so pessimistic last evening. 
Tom grinned. “There’s something wrong with that 
fellow,” he answered. “He won’t be here long. You 
mark my words, Clif. He’s too easy!” 

That first day was devoted principally to preparing 
for future labor. He and Tom visited several class 
rooms and listened to instructions and made notes. 
They bought books and stationery. They also visited 
Mr. Babcock, the Physical Director, in the gymnasium, 
which stood a few rods back of East Hall, and under¬ 
went tests. Since there were at least a dozen other 
fellows waiting, “Cocky’’ put them through expedi¬ 
tiously, handed each a small card bearing his name and 
a lot of figures and dismissed them. Then came din¬ 
ner, followed by another visit to Middle where, in Room 
H, they listened while Mr. Waltman explained what a 
beautiful thing was the Science of Mathematics and 
how much pleasure could be derived from the study 
of it, if they would but realize it. “The Turk” also 
dwelt at some length on the results that might accrue 
to them if they didn’t realize it! Tom, who had taken 
a dislike to the instructor since last evening, made sar¬ 
castic comments under his breath and caricatured “The 
Turk” on the back of a blue book. Finally, having 
obediently taken note of to-morrow’s lesson, they were 
released. Going out, Clif glimpsed the wheel chair and 
its occupant rolling along the corridor toward East 
Hall. He had encountered them several times before 
during the day. Evidently, he concluded, the fellow 
was Third Class, too. He spoke to Tom about it. 

49 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“1 don’t know what class he is,” said Tom, “but his 
name’s Deane. I heard a chap call him that this morn¬ 
ing. Get your togs and wait for me down front. I 
won’t be more than a minute.” 

They obtained adjoining lockers in the gymnasium 
and changed into football attire. Then, since they were 
early for practice, they snooped around the building, 
upstairs and down. The gymnasium was new and well 
appointed. The floor was large enough for two basket¬ 
ball games to be played at once, there was a good run¬ 
ning track above, and, occupying the second story of 
the wing, a rowing room and two other apartments 
variously used for fencing, boxing, wrestling and pos¬ 
sibly other sports. UndeTneath was a large baseball 
cage and a dressing room for visiting teams. The 
basement, which was half above ground and well 
lighted, held the lockers, a swimming pool, shower 
baths and the trainer’s quarters. On the main floor, 
near the front entrance, Mr. Babcock had his office. 

There were numerous trophies to be viewed and a 
wealth of pictures hung about the halls and rooms, 
most of the latter group photographs of teams and 
crews of former years. Here and there, however, was 
to be seen a picture of a football game or a view of a 
crew race. “ T919—Wyndham 16—Wolcott o,’ v read 
Tom. “Huh! T917—Wyndham by Seven Lengths/ 
Say, it’s a funny thing you can’t find any photographs 
where we were licked!” 

“Well,” laughed Clif, “here’s a football game we 
only tied. ‘Wyndham 7—Wolcott 7/ it says.” 

50 




OUT FOR THE TEAM 


“That must have got hung up by mistake! But it’s 
a pretty nifty gym, just the same. Let’s go and see 
what the field’s like.’’ 

Wyndham School had almost outgrown its athletic 
field, but the fact wasn’t apparent to Clif and Tom as 
they left the gymnasium and started across the grass 
toward the football gridiron. The farther line of the 
school property was indicated by a soldierly array of 
tall poplars. Against them, almost directly across from 
the gymnasium, was a commodious concrete stand. 
The quarter-mile track was in front, inclosing the First 
Team gridiron. Another pair of goals, farther away, 
provided a field for the second squad, while what was 
known as the class field lay, somewhat cramped, behind 
the school halls. There were two diamonds, although 
in the fall the Second Team gridiron infringed on the 
more distant one. A brook flowed across one corner 
of the property and had been dammed to make a sizable 
pond well south of the running track. In winter the 
pond supplied skating facilities and sufficient surface 
for two rinks, but at other seasons its usefulness was 
not so evident. When the soccer team played on the 
small expanse of turf awarded to them the small punt 
now moored to a stake was occupied by some Junior 
School volunteer whose duty was to recover errant 
bails from the placid surface of the pond. 

There was only a handful of candidates present when 
Clif and Tom reached the shade of the covered grand¬ 
stand and the latter clumped their way to a couple of 
seats and awaited the beginning of practice. It was 
5i 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


a warm afternoon, with but little air stirring, and, 
although Freeburg was set well amongst the lesser 
slopes of the Berkshires, that air was decidedly humid. 
Tom mopped his forehead with the sleeve of a brown 
jersey and then tried to fan himself with an ancient 
headguard. “Hope the coach doesn’t give us much to 
do,” he muttered. “It’s too hot for football.” 

“You might suggest it to him,” answered Clif. “I 
guess that’s he now; the man in the white shirt.” 

Tom looked and said he guessed so, too, but he didn’t 
leave his seat to offer the coach any advice. A more 
self-assured fellow than Tom would have hesitated to 
approach “G.G.’* on any matter not vitally important. 
“G.G.’s” name was George G. Otis. Some said the 
second “G” stood for “Grumpy,” but it really didn’t. 
It stood for Gray. Mr. Otis wasn’t very large—Cap¬ 
tain Dave Lothrop, beside him, was four inches taller 
and quite as wide of shoulders; and even the long 
trousers of faded gray flannel didn’t wholly conceal the 
fact that he was slightly bowlegged. But there was 
plenty of body there, and the fact that his legs weren’t 
quite straight hadn’t kept him from winning a fair 
share of fame as a plunging half not many years back. 
He hadn’t greatly distinguished himself while at Wynd- 
ham, but his subsequent career had been linked with two 
football teams by which all later teams at his college 
were judged. He had a rather bullet-shaped head, with 
thin hair of a faded brown, sharp eyes of a brown that 
wasn’t the least bit faded, a short nose a bit too flat for 
beauty, a mouth that closed tight and straight and an 
52 



OUT FOR THE TEAM 


aggressive chin. On the whole he wasn’t an Apollo. 
But he knew a lot of football and could teach it to boys; 
and teaching football to boys is a different and much 
harder task than teaching it to men. 

“G.G.” didn’t seek popularity, and so he won it. He 
was a hard taskmaster, could act the tyrant on occasion 
and had a sharp, harsh tongue. He insisted on abso¬ 
lute obedience and had been known to use drastic 
methods to enforce discipline. He was sometimes in¬ 
tensely disliked by those who didn’t share his views on 
the necessity for obedience. But he was fair, could 
laugh^s heartily as any one, off the field, and never 
made the mistake, a too common one, of expecting boys 
of preparatory school age to think or perform like col¬ 
legians. Best of all, perhaps, from the point of view 
of the School, was the fact that during his three years 
as coach at Wyndham his charges had won twice from 
Wolcott. That was almost enough to account for pop¬ 
ularity, but I think that there was another reason for 
it. Boys have a respect for despotism and a liking for 
being firmly ruled just so long as they are certain that 
the despotism is just and the ruler is worthy. And as 
a despot George G. Otis would have satisfied the most 
demanding! 

Tom, after looking the coach over exhaustively from 
the distance of some ten yards, said “Huh!” in a very 
doubtful tone. After a moment he said “Huh!” again, 
and this time it seemed to express conviction. It did, 
for he followed it with: “Something tells me, Clif, I’m 
not going to like that guy! He—he’s got a bad eye!” 
53 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


The gathering in front of the stand increased rapidly, 
while the stand itself began to fill along its front seats 
with spectators. Mr. Hilliard, Instructor in Modern 
Languages, who was also assistant coach, joined the 
throng by the bench. The trainer, Dan Farrell, a short, 
chunky man with a round, good-natured countenance 
and sharp blue eyes, directed the unloading of the two¬ 
wheeled pushcart of its contents; two canvas bags of 
ancient and scarred footballs, a carboy of water, two 
cartons of paper cups, two buckets, a large sponge, 
several headguards, a skein of shoe lacings, a battered 
black bag and some other objects. The black bag held 
Dan’s first-aid appliances. The manager, Jack Macon, 
carried a board with a clip at one end that held down 
several large sheets of paper. He talked with Mr. Otis 
while the two assistant managers, one from the Second 
and one from the Third Class, wandered about vaguely 
as though anxious to be helpful but not knowing how. 
Clif saw the coach pull a watch from his trousers 
pocket and glance at it, and nudged his companion. 

“Let’s get down,” he said. 

So they clumped back to the field, Clif, at least, feel¬ 
ing extremely unimportant amidst the gathering of 
older, larger and self-confident youths. Here and there, 
however, was a boy whose appearance or bearing pro¬ 
claimed the neophyte, and Clif regained a trifle of as¬ 
surance. Tom, although still plainly disapproving of 
Mr. Otis, showed no indication of being troubled by 
an inferiority complex. He sauntered to the thick of 
the throng, and Clif went with him, showing, though 
54 




OUT FOR THE TEAM 


a disposition to keep in the lee of his companion’s 
slightly larger bulk. The coach clapped his hands and 
silence fell, while some sixty canvas-clad youths closed 
about him 

“Fellows, we’re starting to-day to lick Wolcott,” 
announced “G.G.” “We’ve got eight weeks to do it in. 
We’re going to keep our objective in mind every minute 
of those eight weeks. There’s going to be a lot of 
hard work, and any of you who are afraid of work 
had better keep away from me. You won’t like me, and 
I’m certain I shan’t like you, and we’d better not try 
to mix. I’m dead set on having my own way, and I’m 
a crank when I don’t get it. Any one who doesn’t like 
the prospect should resign right now. Those of you 
who sign up will be expected to stick for the duration. 
All right. Shed your headguards, fellows. You won’t 
need them to-day. Last season First and Second Team 
players and substitutes down the field. The rest of 
you here. Mr. Hilliard, will you take this bunch, 
please? Balls, Dan!’’ 

Clif and Tom found themselves in the squad under 
Mr. Hilliard and put in nearly an hour passing the ball 
and receiving it. There were frequent rests, for the 
day was hot and most of the squad were soft with easy 
living, but the work was hard enough to cause more 
than one erstwhile ambitious youth to wonder whether 
it wouldn’t be wiser to seek glory in some other less 
strenuous pursuit. Even Clif> who had sought to keep 
himself conditioned during the summer, was soon per¬ 
spiring freely and was both surprised and a trifle dis- 
55 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


mayed to find himself puffing. It was evident to him 
that his system of summer training had not been a suc¬ 
cess. Looking back, he realized that he had spent more 
time on the hotel porch or lolling on the sand than he 
had meant to! 

Mr. Hilliard was called “Pinky” because his hair was 
coppery-brown. It didn’t approach red, but since no 
other faculty member presented a better claim to the 
nickname it was awarded to Mr. Hilliard. He was 
about thirty years old, Clif concluded. He was fairly 
tall and thin, with a peculiar quick manner of moving 
his head; sort of jerky, as Clif phrased it to himself; 
like a hen’s! 

Practice ended with a single lap around the inner 
border of the running track. It nearly finished Clif, 
and he ended the circuit at a slow walk. Tom poked 
fun at him as they returned to the gymnasium, and 
Clif was much too short of breath to make any defense. 
So ended the first day. 

The second wasn’t much different. There was more 
long passing and they practiced starts, but getting 
acquainted with the ball was the principal desideratum, 
just as yesterday. Both Clif and Tom slightly re¬ 
sented being treated as members of the kindergarten 
class, although acknowledging that it probably wouldn’t 
do them any harm. Mr. Otis, who had the first squad 
in charge, found time to look over the others occa¬ 
sionally, and at such times Mr. Hilliard’s pupils sought 
pathetically hard to attract the coach’s favorable notice. 
Or most of them did. Tom, for some reason not quite 

56 




OUT FOR THE TEAM 


plain to Clif, resented the infrequent visits of “G.G.” 
Once, seeing the head coach’s approach, Tom, at the 
receiving end of a ten-yard pass, opened his arms wide 
as the ball came to him and made a most ridiculously 
amateurish effort at catching. The ball went through, 
bounded from his body and trickled across the turf. 
Tom affected deep chagrin and followed it. He picked 
it up a few yards from Mr. Otis and then looked at him 
invitingly. The coach returned the look for a moment. 
Then he said: “Your left shoe lace is trailing. Fix it.” 

Tom sped the ball across vindictively. In a pause 
he said to Clif: “Did you hear him? Didn’t I tell you 
I wasn’t going to like that guy?” 

Clif laughed and then sobered. “What did you want 
to do that for, anyway? Just to show off?” 

“Why, heck,” answered the other indignantly, “a 
fellow can’t catch it every time!” 

“Run along and sell your papers!” jeered Clif. “You 
did that on purpose. You just wanted Mr. Otis to jump 
on you so you could have a grouch on him. Anyway, 
I see you’ve tied your lace!’’ 

“Oh, go to the dickens,” grumbled Tom. 

To-day’s practice lasted longer than yesterday’s and, 
since it involved a good deal of running around, it left 
the candidates rather more wrung out than on the pre¬ 
vious afternoon. Clif confided to Tom that if he was 
called on to jog the track he’d die before he was half¬ 
way around. Fortunately, then, only a handful of 
fellows, all from Mr. Otis’s squad, were called on for 
that final martyrdom, and Clif was able to reach the 
57 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


gymnasium and to insinuate himself under the refresh¬ 
ing downpour of a shower bath without further suffer¬ 
ing. But he was so fagged out and so lame by the time 
supper was over that he flatly refused Tom’s challenge 
to chess—a game he knew very little of—and dragged 
his weary body up to Number 17 and flopped on his 
bed. Tom, not to be deprived of his chess, sought the 
recreation room, promising to meet the other for study 
hour. 

Walter Treat looked mildly disapproving when Clif 
stretched his tired body out on the bed. Walter’s 
athletic activities were confined to an infrequent game 
of tennis and an even more infrequent afternoon of 
golf, and it is probable that he didn’t appreciate his 
roommate’s condition. Interpreting the look correctly, 
though, Clif presented his excuse, wondering as he did 
so why he should consider it necessary to secure 
Walter’s approval. 

“I don’t see why they make you fellows practice on 
such a warm day,” observed Walter when Clif had 
added a groan to his explanation for good measure. 
“Still, I dare say there’s so little time that they can’t 
afford to waste any. Better take a hot bath before bed.” 

“Gee, that sounds good,” assented Clif. After a 
minute he asked: “Say, Walter, do you know who the 
fellow in the invalid’s chair is?” 

“His name is Deane; either Laurence or Lorin, I 
think. His father is Sanford Deane.” 

“Sanford Deane? You don’t mean the Sanford 
Deane, do you?” 


58 




OUT FOR THE TEAM 


“Yes. I’m telling you what I heard. It may not 
be right.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was,” said Clif. 
“He sort of looks like—like somebody important. Was 
he here last year?” 

“No, he’s new. As for his looking important, maybe 
he does, Clif, but I don’t know that the fact that his 
father is immensely wealthy gives him the right to!” 

“Why, no, and I didn’t mean just that, I guess. 
Still, his father is pretty well known, pretty prominent, 
aside from being rich, isn’t he? You’re always reading 
about him in the papers.” 

“Important in a financial way, certainly.” Walter 
almost, but not quite, shrugged. “Any one who gets 
hold of fifty or sixty million dollars can get his name 
in the papers every day if he wants to. Sometimes it 
gets there when he doesn’t want it to.’’ 

Walter smiled cynically. 



CHAPTER VI 
WATTLES 


C LIF was glad that the next day was Sunday. 

He could lie abed a half-hour later, which 
was something to rejoice over, and, save for 
church at eleven o’clock, no duties claimed him until 
study hour at eight. He awoke before the rising bell 
and had a full ten minutes in which to stretch his lame 
muscles and accustom himself to the thought of getting 
up. The muscles were not as sore as he had expected 
they would be, and by the time he was ready for break¬ 
fast he felt quite fit. As though having atoned over¬ 
night for his talkativeness, Walter spoke but twice dur¬ 
ing dressing, and then only when spoken to. 

In the afternoon Clif and Tom went to walk. They 
set out to find the golf links since, although the students 
were not allowed to play the game on Sunday, there 
were certain club members whose views were less strict 
than Doctor Wyndham’s, and Tom had a mind to select 
a promising twosome and follow it around, his idea 
of spending a Sunday afternoon pleasantly being to 
derive entertainment from others at as slight a cost of 
physical or mental exertion to himself as possible. 
But his plan went agley since a full half-hour’s search 
failed to discover the links. Billy Desmond had said 
60 


WATTLES 


it was a good mile from the school, and so far he had 
proved truthful, but the rest of his information had 
been purposely misleading. Perhaps Billy’s idea of 
spending a pleasant Sunday afternoon was to sit com¬ 
fortably in Number 34, surrounded by pages of the 
morning paper, and mentally picture Tom and Clif 
seeking a golf course where there never had been one! 

They located it finally, however. Having aban¬ 
doned search for it, they climbed Baldhead Mountain, 
which deserved only the first half of its title and pre¬ 
sented few difficulties, and from the bare granite ledge 
on the summit saw figures moving about over a green 
expanse some two miles distant. The figures were 
recognizable as men playing golf. Tom said “Huh!” 
disgustedly and resolutely turned his gaze away. 

Well, there were more things than golf courses to be 
seen. On a clear day, such as this was, one could look 
into three states from the summit of Baldhead. Since, 
however, there was no way of telling where Connecti¬ 
cut merged into Massachusetts or where Massachu¬ 
setts became New York one’s satisfaction in the feat 
was somewhat dimmed. Tom declared that the differ¬ 
ent states should have signs on them. 

It was warm up there on the sloping, weather-worn 
ledge, but the breeze prevented discomfort. Tom 
hugged his knees, sending a puzzled look toward the 
distant links. Finally he seemed to see a light, for he 
said “By heck!” in a most explosive fashion, following 
it, after a moment of grim silence, with: “But I’ll get 
even with Billy!” 

61 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Later Clif recalled Walter’s revelations about the 
boy in the wheel chair, and he proceeded to spring the 
news on Tom. “Say, who do you suppose he is?” he 
asked, having introduced the subject. 

“King Tut,” said Tom, hurling a pebble into the 
distance. 

“No, seriously. Well, he’s Sanford Deane’s son!” 

“The man who owns all the money in the world? 
How come he’s here?” Tom was disappointingly un¬ 
impressed, Clif considered. 

“Why shouldn’t he be here? What’s the matter with 
this place?” 

“Nothing, but there are lots of schools where it costs 
you a heap more. You’d think he would send the 
fellow to one of those.” 

“Well, I don’t see that,” Clif objected. “Anyway, 
being a cripple—” 

“Did Treat tell you what the trouble with the chap 
is?” 

“No, I didn’t ask him.” 

“I heard some one say that he hasn’t any legs, but I 
don’t believe that. Yesterday that nurse or valet of 
his was carrying him upstairs in Middle, and I’m pretty 
sure I could see his legs under that rug thing. Of 
course they might be artificial.” 

“I don’t believe it either,” said Clif. “He was only 
about twenty feet from us in History class yesterday, 
and I just know he had plenty of legs!” 

“How many?” chuckled Tom. “He isn’t a centi¬ 
pede, is he?” 


62 





WATTLES 


“You know what I mean,” Clif laughed. “I’d sort 
of like to know him, but he doesn’t give you much en¬ 
couragement. Being so blamed rich, maybe he doesn’t 
want to have anything to do with us. Still, he doesn’t 
look snobbish.” 

“I came near speaking to him yesterday,” said Tom, 
“but the valet chap looked so sort of snippy* I didn’t. 
Glad of it now. Guess he’d have frozen me up.” 

“I don’t believe so, Tom.” 

“Well, I’m sorry* for him, but I don’t want to know 
him. Fellows whose folks have a lot of money put on 
too many airs for me, old son. Get a move on. I’ve 
got to get back and tell Billy where he gets off!” 

After a week at school Clif felt as if he had been 
there a long while. He had become accustomed to the 
routine, and a willing slave to the clanging gong. At 
first getting up promptly at seven, slipping inside as¬ 
sembly hall for prayers before the doors closed at 
seven-fifteen and reaching Table 12 for breakfast be¬ 
fore eight had been irksome. And for a day or two he 
was forced to consult his schedule frequently in order 
to appear at the right recitation room at the proper 
time. Accustomed to studying alone, the first study 
hour in assembly hall had profited him but little. 
You had to go there at eight and sit until nine, sur¬ 
rounded by something like a hundred and ninety others, 
and prepare your next day’s lessons. You could study 
as much as you pleased at other times, and in other 
places, but between eight and nine in the evening, every 
day save Saturday, you had to be present in assembly 

63 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


hall. One of the faculty sat on the platform and, lift¬ 
ing his eyes periodically from his own work, sent his 
gaze roving over the big room. Then, perhaps, you’d 
hear exchanges like these : 

“Asleep, Jones, or thinking?” 

There would be a sudden start on the part of Jones, 
an agitated clutching of book or paper, and “Thinking, 
sir!” Jones would answer. 

“Hm. Try doing it without closing the eyes, Jones.” 

Or: “I’m sorry, Robinson, that I am too far from 
you to listen to that conversation with Brown. It 
must be quite interesting.” 

“I was just borrowing an eraser, sir.” 

“You have it now?” 

The eraser would be exhibited as evidence. 

“Very well. Hereafter try to provide yourself with 
such—er—items before coming here. If it takes you 
so long to negotiate the loan of an eraser, Robinson, 
I shudder to think what would happen if you found you 
had forgotten, say, your fountain pen. The hour 
would be all too short, I fear!” 

The bright overhead lights, the fluttering of leaves, 
the scratching of pens, the shuffling of feet, the pres¬ 
ence of so many others around him all combined to 
deprive Clif of whatever power of concentration he 
possessed. That first study hour was a total loss so 
far as he was concerned. 

But he got used to it after a time or two, just as he 
got used to other features of life at Wyndham School, 

64 



WATTLES 


and his letters to his father were increasingly cheerful. 
For days at a time he never went off the school prop¬ 
erty, but that was principally because football prac¬ 
tice occupied his afternoons. The mornings were 
pretty well taken up with recitations, and with prepar¬ 
ing for them. In the afternoon the last recitation for 
Clif was sometimes at half-past two, sometimes at 
three. In the latter case he showed up for practice 
about ten minutes late. Practice generally ran until 
half-past five nowadays, and there was only enough 
time for a shower, and a few minutes of rest before 
supper time. Between supper and study hour there 
was an interim of perhaps an hour and a half, and 
after study hour came “prowl.” “Prowl” was the 
hour between nine and ten when visiting between 
halls was permitted. At ten, unless you were a First 
Class* fellow, you were required to be back in your 
own room; except you were the fortunate possessor 
of a permit from a “fac.” At ten-thirty you put your 
light out. 

Life was busy and interesting. Clif soon discovered 
that he was going to have to study rather harder than 
last year, but he encountered no real difficulty in any 
course. The same was true of Tom save that the latter 
was already bogged down, as he phrased it, in English. 
That was one study which Tom dreaded and disliked— 
and at which he toiled hardest. “That ‘Alick’ guy 
thinks I can’t do the fool stuff,” he declared once to 
Clif, “but he’s got another think. I’ll do it if it kills 
me!” “Alick” was, of course, Mr. Alexander Wyatt. 

65 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Football claimed a good share of attention, and was 
the subject of much conversation between Clif and 
Tom, and, frequently, Billy Desmond. Billy was gen¬ 
erous with advice, but although the boys followed the 
advice to the best of their abilities, it didn’t, as Clif 
put it, seem to get them anything. They worked hard 
and conscientiously, just as did three score others, but 
without any noticeable improvement in their status. 
The candidates had been sorted into four squads by 
Wednesday, and Clif and Tom were in Squad D. 
Squad D was composed of some sixteen or eighteen 
youths of various ages, sizes and football experiences 
in charge of “Pinky” Hilliard. “Pinky” also looked 
after Squad C, or did so until Friday, when Mr. Bab¬ 
cock joined the coaching staff. On that afternoon 
Squad A, and many of Squad B, were dismissed early, 
since the first game was scheduled for the morrow, and 
Coach Otis gave his attention to the remaining candi¬ 
dates. It was the seventh day of practice, and, after 
a preliminary hour of passing and falling on the ball, 
of starting and tackling the dummy, line and backfield 
candidates were separated, and the former hustled to 
the north end of the field by the head coach and given 
a half hour’s instruction in their duties. 

Afterwards, punters and forwards were sent to one 
side of the field, and backs to the other, and the balls 
were soon arching across to be pulled down by the 
backfield candidates, and run back while tackles and 
ends came across to meet them. Hard tackling was 
barred, however, the man with the ball either being 
66 




WATTLES 


run off to one side or merely blocked with the body. 
Clif, encountering Tom several times in midfield, re¬ 
gretted the prohibition. It would have added greatly 
to his enjoyment of the occasion to have been allowed 
to topple the dodging, feinting Tom to earth. He did 
secure some satisfaction on one encounter, however, 
by knocking the ball from Tom's grasp and jeering as 
the latter vented outraged feelings and trotted off in 
pursuit. The air was full of flying balls, players raced 
this way and that and shouts of “Mine!" or “I’ve got 
it!" vied with the calls of the coaches. Lacking a 
scrimmage to watch, the audience in the stand was 
grateful for so much action, and, lolling comfortably 
in the shade, lazily voiced approval of a good punt 
or a clever catch or chortled merrily over some amusing 
incident. 

At the farther edge of the running track, toward the 
school buildings, two onlookers sat quite by them¬ 
selves. One, covered to his waist by a light rug, leaned 
back at ease in a wheel chair. The second occupied a 
folding canvas stool set at the left and slightly to the 
rear of his companion. He was rather tall and rather 
bony, and, seated bolt upright, the inner edges of his 
shining black shoes touching, a hand on either knee 
of his carefully creased black serge trousers, he looked 
painfully respectable and extremely uncomfortable. 
The idea must have occurred to the occupant of the 
chair for he asked, glancing around: 

“Comfortable, Wattles?" 

“Oh, quite, sir. Absolutely." 

67 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Loring Deane smiled. No one, he was aware, not 
even the capable Wattles, could be really comfortable 
for any length of time on one of those silly, backless 
canvas stools; especially while sitting bolt upright. He 
had tried to induce Wattles to bring a chair along, of¬ 
fering to carry it in front of him, but Wattles had been 
frightfully outraged at the bare suggestion. Loring 
returned to watching the scene, and Wattles, producing 
an immaculate handkerchief from the breast pocket 
of his black coat, removed the black derby from his 
head and gently mopped a perspiring forehead. Then, 
handkerchief and hat properly returned to their re¬ 
spective places, hands again on the seams of his trousers, 
he, too, gave his attention once more to the somewhat 
astonishing proceedings. 

Football of this particular style was new to Wattles. 
Wattles had been born in England some thirty years 
ago, and, although he had been in this country ever 
since the age of nineteen and once a year strode, almost 
impressively, to the polling booth and cast his vote, 
he was still English. His speech scarcely betrayed him 
since he had gone to much pains to acquire the phrase¬ 
ology and accent of his adopted country, but one had 
only to view his countenance to surprise his secret. 
Loring’s father had once declared that Wattles had 
the features of a faithful horse. That was perhaps a 
picturesque exaggeration, but it couldn’t be denied 
that there was something oddly equine in Wattles’s face. 
He had pale brown eyes, a remarkably long and very 
sizable nose and a chin—well, the best description of 
68 




WATTLES 


Wattles’s lower features is that, below the straight, 
slightly loose mouth, they just sort of faded right 
out of the picture! 

“You might at least have worn your straw hat,” 
said the boy severely a few minutes later. “That derby 
must be beastly hot.” 

“I don’t find it so, Mister Loring,” replied Wattles 
earnestly. “A straw always seems much warmer on 
the head than a bowl—I should say derby, sir.” 

“Just your silly British obstinacy,” chuckled Loring. 
“They only discovered straw hats over there a few 
years ago; after you left, I guess; and I suppose your 
folks for thousands of years back wore bowler hats 
on every occasion, summer and winter, and you’d rather 
be shot than be seen in anything else. To my knowl¬ 
edge you’ve worn that straw I made you buy just once, 
and then you looked so miserable I was really sorry 
for you.” 

Wattles smiled respectfully. “Without doubt, sir, 
there’s a great deal in heredity.” 

“And there’s a great deal in red-headity, too, 
Wattles,” laughed Loring. “Red-headity means stub¬ 
bornness.” 

“Really, sir? I never heard the word. That is, 
begging your pardon, Mister Loring, I never hap¬ 
pened—” 

“You wouldn’t,” agreed the boy. “I just invented 
it. I guess those fellows are frightfully hot, Wattles. 
There are some compensations for my enforced in- 
69 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


activity after all. Chasing around on a day like this 
would be a mite uncomfortable, eh?” 

“Quite, sir. Perfectly grilling, sir. But are the 
young gentlemen obliged to exercise so violently?” 

“Depends on one’s understanding of the word, 
Wattles. Of course they don’t actually have to play, 
but they want to, and when you try for the team you’ve 
got to do what you are told to. The man over there 
in the white shirt is the coach, and his business is to 
teach those chaps how to play good football, and he 
has less than two months to do it. I dare say he has 
a bunch of last year fellows to build around, but there’s 
next year to think of, too, and so he has not only to 
develop enough players to fill up this season’s team, but 
must supply himself with material to draw on next 
fall. That means that he has to hustle from the very 
start, Wattles, and explains why he has those chaps 
there puffing so hard.” 

“Yes, sir. I’d no idea the game was quite so—so 
intensive.” 

The boy chuckled. “Wattles, your vocabulary is get¬ 
ting richer every day, isn’t it?” 

“Was it the wrong word, sir?” asked the man anx¬ 
iously. “I understand—” 

“Not at all. Quite proper, in fact. I dare say the 
English game’s a bit less vehement, isn’t it?” 

“I couldn’t say that, Mister Loring. It’s played very 
hard, but I fancy the preparation is not quite so—so 
severe. I’ve seen only a few games since I left the 
other side, sir, and I may be wrong. I gather that 
70 




WATTLES 


the sort of football played here is quite different from 
the English game.” 

“You’ve never seen our style of football, have you? 
Why, yes, I think you’ll notice a difference. I 
dare say they’ll be putting on a scrimmage in a day 
or two, and you’ll have a chance to compare the two 
games.” 

“I’m sure it will be most interesting, sir.” 

An escaped football trickled across the running track 
and came to a stop a few feet from the chair. Wattles, 
an adventurous gleam in his eyes, started to rise, but 
a boy in togs was in pursuit, and, crunching across 
the cinders, scooped up the ball. Wattles relapsed, dis¬ 
appointedly, to his former composure. With the ball 
in one hand, the player glanced smilingly at the boy 
in the wheel chair. 

“Hello!” he said. “Pretty warm, isn’t it?” 

“Very,” answered Loring. There wasn’t time for 
more, for the rather tall youth with the nice eyes, and 
the pleasant, friendly smile, turned quickly, dropped the 
ball, met it with the instep of his right foot and jogged 
back toward the middle of the playing field. Loring 
watched the scuffed, brown leather ball arch away on 
a forty-yard flight, and settle into the arms of a wait¬ 
ing player. 

“That’s a fellow who spoke to me one night in the 
corridor, Wattles. Gave me a hand getting into that 
meeting room. Rather a nice, clean looking chap, isn’t 
he?” 

“Very, sir. Quite the gentlemari.” 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Yes.” Loring was silent a moment. Then, fol¬ 
lowing a long sigh, he said: “Wattles, I’d give any¬ 
thing in the world if I could do that!” 

“Do—I beg your pardon, Mister Loring?” 

“What he did, I mean. Just kick a football!” 




CHAPTER VII 
MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD 


S ATURDAY noon Clif stood on the steps of 
West Hall and filled his lungs with air. Room 
G, in Middle, had been more than usually stuffy, 
and a stiff session with “The Turk” had left the boy 
feeling rather limp. Generally algebra went fairly 
smoothly for Clif, but to-day he had floundered badly. 
It had seemed that Mr. Way, possessed of uncanny 
power, had surmised Clif’s condition and had malig¬ 
nantly, relentlessly exposed it. Yet, although there had 
been some bad moments, and “The Turk” had displayed 
his ability for sarcasm, Clif had got through not too 
disastrously. Retiring from the blackboard, dusting 
chalk from his fingers, perspiring gently, he had found 
the boy in the wheel chair regarding him sympathet¬ 
ically from across the room. There had been, too, a 
twinkle in the chap’s eyes that had seemed to say, 
“Good work! He didn’t floor you, anyhow!” 

Easing the two books he carried to his other arm, 
Clif gave a final look at the sunlit lawn that stretched 
away to the distant tree-bordered street, took a last 
breath of the warm, fresh air, and turned to reenter 
the building. But at that moment a big, shining car, 
standing further along the drive, beyond East Hall 
73 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


entrance, came to life and rolled noiselessly forward, 
and came to a stop at the steps. At about the same 
instant a group of four persons emerged from the fur¬ 
ther entrance: a slim, beautifully dressed woman, a 
black-clothed man in a square-crowned derby hat carry¬ 
ing without evident exertion the boy who, but a few; 
minutes before, had flashed congratulations to Clif 
across the recitation room, and, lastly, a small Junior 
School youth. The woman—even at the distance Clif 
could see that she was remarkably pretty—entered the 
car, the man in black deposited his burden beside her, 
the small Junior ensconced himself rather diffidently 
in the corner, and the derby hat placed itself beside 
the plum-colored cap of the chauffeur. Then the car 
moved forward again, gathered speed, and purred softly 
past West and down the shaded driveway, the poised 
figure above the radiator glinting in the sunlight. As 
the car passed the single occupant of the West Hall steps, 
Loring Deane leaned across the younger boy beside 
him and waved. Clif waved back, but too late to be 
seen. 

He watched the car out of sight, approving the speck¬ 
less luster of its long, sleek body, its smooth, almost 
soundless progress. Even the blue and white number 
plate at the rear shone immaculately, seeming to pro¬ 
claim not only that the owner was a resident of New 
York, but that he was the possessor of great wealth, 
since, or so Clif had long since concluded, only those 
of great wealth were able to drive about in cars as im¬ 
maculate as this one! The lady was, he supposed, 
74 



MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD 


Deane’s mother. Since Saturday was a half-holiday 
she was probably taking him home for a visit. He 
found himself envying the small Junior who, tucked 
into the corner, hadn’t looked as though he was half 
appreciating his luck. 

But Clif’s guess proved wrong later. When the 
game with Freeburg High School began at three o’clock 
the big dark blue car was standing at the farther side 
of the gridiron, beyond the running track. The Junior 
was no longer in it. Mrs. Deane and Loring were the 
sole occupants, Loring’s attendant and the chauffeur 
being seated together on the grass a short distance 
away. Cl if drew Tom’s attention to the car and Tom 
said: “Gosh! It’s one of those English whatyoucall- 
ems, isn’t it? Say, that’s some cart, if you want to 
know! You say that’s Mrs. Deane ? What’s she like ?” 

“Awfully pretty,” said Clif emphatically. “I wasn’t 
very close to them, but she looked corking.” 

“Yes, but if you have plenty of money you can look 
like—like Venus herself, I guess,” answered Tom pessi¬ 
mistically. “Maybe close to she wouldn’t look so 
wonderful.” 

“Yes, she would,” said Clif stoutly. “I’ll bet you 
anything—” 

But as Freeburg kicked off just then the conversa¬ 
tion ended abruptly. 

Clif and Tom watched the game from the ground 
beside the track. There was no room for them on the 
benches, nor for a dozen more equally unimportant 
members of the squad, and so they spread their blue 

75 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


blankets on the grass and sat cross-legged while the 
battle raged. As a football contest that first game of 
the Wyndham schedule didn’t amount to very much, 
but since it gave the School its first opportunity to see 
their heroes in action, it secured a full attendance. 
Freeburg presented a light team which tried to make 
speed atone for weight, and didn’t quite succeed, as 
the final score attested. Both coaches used the occa¬ 
sion to try out a long list of substitutes and the game 
was considerably slowed up because of the constant 
changes. Wyndham’s line contained four veterans, 
and her backfield two when the game began. Captain 
Lothrop, playing his third season at Wyndham, was at 
left guard, Archer at left end, Higgs at center, Stod¬ 
dard at quarter, Jensen at right half and Fargo at 
full back. These men constituted the nucleus on which 
the coaches hoped to build a winning team, and there 
appeared to be no reason why they shouldn’t succeed. 
Beside the real veterans there were at least another half- 
dozen candidates who had served last year either as 
First Team substitutes or Second Team players. And 
there were, of course, a considerable number of less 
experienced youths from the class teams, or, like Clif 
and Tom, from outside. Coach Otis did not appear 
to lack material, even though the first grand total of 
something over sixty had now been reduced to about 
fifty. Before the Freeburg game was at an end—ten- 
minute periods were played—“G.G.” had watched no 
fewer than thirty-one candidates perform. Sad to re¬ 
late, however, neither Clif nor Tom were among the 
76 




MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD 


number. They were allowed to sit undisturbed through¬ 
out the contest. 

The playing was fairly ragged on both sides, and the 
game lacked interest. The day was much too warm for 
football, and the home team and the visitors alike suf¬ 
fered. The Dark Blue held to a tackle-to-tackle of¬ 
fense, and only twice offered anything in the way of 
aerial attack. Then two short passes over the end of 
the line were tried with negative results. Most of 
Wyndham’s gains were made between the opposing 
guards and tackles. Once or twice the Freeburg center 
was battered down, but the youth who occupied the 
pivotal position for the visitors was extremely capable 
and turned back most of the plays directed against him. 
The Dark Blue put over one touchdown in the first 
period, and hung up seven points. In the next quarter 
a second touchdown was added, but Stoddard missed 
the try-at-goal. Freeburg forced the fighting after 
half-time, and produced the only thrilling incident of 
the performance when her quarter got loose with the 
ball near his own forty-yard line, and ran to Wynd¬ 
ham’s seven. There he was pulled down by Ogden, 
playing right half for Jensen, and the exultant shouts 
of the Freeburg rooters were cut short. But they 
broke forth again some two minutes later when, fol¬ 
lowing two unsuccessful tries at the Dark Blue line, 
a fleet-footed substitute was shot into the visitor's 
line-up, and took the pigskin on a wide run around 
his left end, placing it a scant twelve inches from the 
goal line. With one down remaining, Freeburg con- 
77 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


centrated on Quinlan, at left guard, and smashed 
through for a score. A minute afterwards she turned 
the 6 into a 7. Just before that third period ended 
the Dark Blue hammered her way across the enemy 
goal-line for a third touchdown from which, again, 
no goal resulted. The final quarter witnessed the in¬ 
troduction of practically two fresh teams but produced 
no scoring. Wyndham chalked up a 19 to 7 victory 
to start the season’s schedule. 

Talking the game over that evening, Clif and Tom 
arrived almost simultaneously at the same conclusion, 
which, as Tom put it, was this: “You and I, old son, 
have about as much chance to make the team this year 
as I have to win the Condon Prize for English! Why, 
heck, no one knows we’re on the squad! That coach 
doesn’t even see us.” 

“You’re right, I guess,” Clif agreed sadly. “That 
bunch is too big and too heavy for us to associate with. 
What we’d better do is quit and put in our time beefing 
up.” 

“It isn’t only that, because some of the fellows who 
played to-day—or tried to—weren’t so blamed big, but 
that Otis dumb-bell can’t see any fellow outside the 
little bunch he’s nursed from last year. The trouble 
with us is we’re outsiders, Clif. What we need is 
advertising, I guess. Say, that’s an idea! Let’s put 
an ad in next week’s Lantern. Something like this: 
'Mr. Clifton Bingham and Mr. Thomas Kemble pre¬ 
sent their compliments to the Football Committee, and 
Coaches, and solicit their patronage.’ Hold on, though. 

78 



MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD 


This is better: ‘Experienced end and clever half-back 
want positions on Football Team. Interview arranged. 
Address “Neglected,” care Lantern / How’s that?” 

“I don’t believe the Committee ever reads the Lan¬ 
tern” said Clif. 

“They ought to, for it’s a very truthful publication. 
Like last week when it said that sixty-something candi¬ 
dates were ‘frying for the Team.’ Maybe it meant to 
say ‘trying,’ but, considering the weather, it was dead 
right. Well, the best we can expect, Clif, is to make 
the Second; and we may get left there!” 

“I don’t see how. They’ve got to have somebody 
for it, and if Mr. Otis makes another cut Monday, as 
they say he’s going to, there won’t be many left.” 

“Huh! Maybe we’ll be among the—the cutees! 
Oh, well, never say die. Let’s go down and see what 
they’re getting on the radio.” 

There was a brand-new notice on the board outside 
the locker room door on Monday when Clif reached 
the gymnasium, and his heart missed a beat as he 
stopped to read it. He was alone, since Tom had a 
late recitation, and he was glad of it just then. “Atten¬ 
tion Football Candidates,” he read. “The following 
players will report to Coach Babcock on Second Team 
field at 3 130 Monday: Adams, Ames, Bingham—” 

Clif drew a long breath. His feelings oddly com¬ 
bined disappointment and relief. For the first moment 
disappointment was uppermost, but then the realiza¬ 
tion that he had long since discounted being dropped 
from the First Team, and that as lately as Saturday 
79 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


evening he had been doubtful of making the Second, 
produced a reaction. He guessed he was pretty lucky, 
after all. There were only some twenty names on this 
list, which meant that fully a dozen fellows had been* 
dropped completely. Then his eyes hurried down the 
first column and across to the second. “Howlett, 
Jackson, Kemble—” 

Good! Tom had made it, too! Then, as he went 
on into the locker room, it occurred to him that perhaps 
Tom wouldn't be as gratified as he was. Perhaps Tom, 
in spite of his pessimistic utterances, had secretly ex¬ 
pected to be retained on the First! But later in the 
afternoon Tom scouted the idea with convincing sin¬ 
cerity. 

“I hadn’t the ghost of a chance, Clif, and I knew it the 
second day of practice. I can play football pretty 
well, but I haven’t had the experience fellows like 
Dave Lothrop and Billy Desmond and Pete Jensen 
and a lot more have had. And, of course, Pm light. 
No, sir, I’m satisfied to be here, old son. Besides, 
I’m going to get a lot of fun out of showing some of 
those First Team swelled-heads that they don’t know 
all the football there is, as good as they may be! Heck, 
I’m not kicking!” 

And neither was Clif. In fact, after listening to Mr. 
Babcock’s talk to them on the old wooden baseball 
grand stand that had been moved aside to make room 
for the gridiron, he had begun to wonder whether 
being a member of so glorious a company as the Scrub 
wasn’t a far better thing than belonging to the First 
80 



MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD 


Team! Of course common sense told him later that 
it wasn’t, but Mr. Babcock had almost made it seem 
so for the moment! 

• “Cocky” seemed to have left behind him in the gym¬ 
nasium some of the brusqueness that awed his classes. 
To-day he acted and looked and spoke like a “regular 
fellow.” He had on a pair of old canvas football 
pants, a faded red sweater and two of the most dis¬ 
reputable gray woolen stockings ever seen out of a 
rag bag. Those stockings had been frequently and 
variously darned until there remained but very little 
of the original material; and despite all the mending 
they still cried out for help. “Cocky’s” sturdy calves 
were visible in wide areas in more places than one! 
“Cocky” wasn’t a handsome man, for his face was too 
square, his nose too blunt and his eyebrows too heavy. 
To be frank, Mr. Henry Babcock, B.A., looked rather 
like a retired gentleman pugilist; or, perhaps, like one’s 
idea of such a person. He was about thirty years old, 
affected very loose tweed suits and, between the hours 
of five and six, behind the closed door of Number 19 
East Hall, played weird melodies on an English horn. 
Any one who has ever heard an English horn engaged 
in rendering a solo will understand why the door was 
closed! 

“I’ve got a little speech to make, fellows,” said 
“Cocky,” spreading a pair of muscular arms along 
the edge of the seat behind him, “so you’d better sit 
down, and make yourselves comfortable for a few 
minutes. Now, then, you know what a Scrub Team 
81 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


is for, but perhaps you don’t realize just how important 
it is. This School sets out every year at about this 
time to beat Wolcott. That’s what we all want to do; 
you and I, and Doctor Wyndham and Coach Otis and 
every fellow, big or little, who owes allegiance to 
Wyndham. To beat Wolcott we must have a whop¬ 
ping good team, a better team this year than last, 
maybe. We have a pretty stiff schedule arranged; 
eight games; three of them away from home; planned 
to bring us along slowly and surely to the final contest. 
When that comes along our team must be in top form, 
trained to the minute. That may sound easy, but it’s 
really pretty hard. It means lots of work, work that 
gets a little harder day by day; it means attention to 
diet, strict watch on the physical condition of every 
man, for it’s quite as easy to overtrain as to train too 
little; and it means putting into practice every day 
what you have learned the day before. That’s where 
we come in, fellows. 

"Our business is to beat Wolcott, just as it is the 
First Team’s business. We do it—if we succeed—by 
helping the First to learn how. There’s glory in that, 
fellows, lots of glory. I want you to realize it. I 
want you to start in with the conviction that you are 
doing your share to secure a Wyndham victory over 
Wolcott. I want you to be just as proud of being a 
Second Team player as you’d be of belonging to the 
First. When the big day comes the cheers won’t be 
for you, maybe, but you’ll know in your hearts that: 
you deserve a share of them, and you’ll be satisfied 
82 




MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD 


with what you’ve done, and proud of your team, the 
team that showed the big team how to win! 

“I’ve handled this team for four years, fellows, and 
I’ve always enjoyed it, always taken pride in it, always 
felt a mighty lot of satisfaction, when the season was 
done, over my part in the victory or the defeat that 
came to us. Because you mustn’t think, any of you, 
that there isn’t honor in defeat. The team that plays 
cleanly, gallantly, fights its hardest when Luck turns 
its back, is downed and won’t stay downed, wins honor 
indeed. Well, now, here we are. Twenty of us. ‘Mr. 
Babcock’s Team,’ the ‘Second’ or the ‘Scrub.’ Call 
yourself what you like. It doesn’t make much differ¬ 
ence what we’re called or what we call ourselves, so 
long as we do what’s expected of us with all our might. 
So let’s get together, fellows, and show Wyndham 
the finest, fightingest Second Team it has ever seen! 
Remember this, too. You’re not only helping to win 
the Wolcott game this year, you’re training yourself 
for next year. You Second Team fellows will be First 
Team fellows next fall. Most of you, anyhow. It 
isn’t unlikely that one or two of you will get to the 
big team this season. Just show Mr. Otis that you’ve 
got something the First Team needs, and you won’t 
stay here long! 

“Just so that it won’t be all work and no play, I’ve 
arranged three outside games for you. We’ll play 
Freeburg High School a week from next Saturday, 
Minster High School on November third, and the 
Wolcott Second Team on November tenth. We could 
83 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


have more games if we were permitted to play away 
from home. But we aren’t, and I think three will be 
enough, anyhow. So now you know what’s ahead 
of you, Scrub. A lot of steady, grinding work, a little 
play, and virtue more or less its own reward. Who’s 
for it?” 

It was evident that all were. A shout went up from 
twenty throats that carried as far as the diamond and 
aroused interest and conjecture there. Having joined 
his voice with the others, Clif turned and looked rather 
pityingly toward the First Team field. Those poor 
chaps over there didn’t realize what they were missing! 
Mr. Babcock was speaking again. He was on his feet 
now, and in response to the suggestion of his move¬ 
ment the fellows were leaving the seats. 

“We’ll have the first scrimmage with the other gang 
about Friday. That gives us four days to get ready. 
I’d suggest that before the Freeburg game you elect 
a captain. But don’t do it just yet. Wait until you’ve 
played together awhile. Until you choose a leader 
for yourself you’ll need some one in authority, though, 
and so I’ll appoint Henning temporary captain.” 

“Cheer for Captain Clem!” laughed some one. 

Clement Henning grinned sheepishly. He was a big 
First Class fellow who had played guard for two years 
on scrub teams. He was steady, hard working, good- 
natured and slow. Last season, for a brief and glo¬ 
rious fortnight, he had been transferred to the big team, 
but he couldn’t hold down his job there, and had re¬ 
turned, untroubled, it appeared, to the Scrub. Clem 
84 




MR. BABCOCK TAKES HOLD 


could play football to a certain point, but he never 
could get beyond that point. It is probable that all 
the coaches in the country, working together on him 
in relays, would have failed to make Clem play any 
better than he had played last year or would play this. 
But if he lacked football genius he was long on popu¬ 
larity. Every one knew Clem Henning and every one 
liked him. 

The cheer wasn’t given, but the selection met with 
sounds of approval from all. “Cocky” went on, 
briskly now: 

“We’re going to start right at the very bottom, fel¬ 
lows. No one who can’t make a good tackle or handle 
the ball properly is good enough for this outfit. We’ll 
have some passing now to warm up, and as soon as 
the First is through with the dummy we’ll go down 
there, and eat some dirt. We’ll divide the squad, Cap¬ 
tain Henning, and you’ll take half and I’ll take half. 
All right, let’s have those balls, Hoppin. Over here, 
a bunch of you. Now then, Scrub, let’s get going!” 




CHAPTER VIII 


MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 

HAT first feeling of exaltation didn’t last 
long, but it had served its purpose. The 



Wyndham Scrub members had shared it to¬ 
gether and, since the experience of a common emotion 
creates a bond, had become imbued with a solidarity 
that was to prove the foundation of greater unity and 
cohesion. Which was all that Mr. Babcock had ex¬ 
pected. 

On Tuesday the Scrub had its first line-up and ran 
through a few formations. Adams was at left end, 
Ames at left tackle, Greene at left guard, Ridgway at 
center, Henning at right guard, Coles at right tackle, 
Bingham at right end, Jackson at quarter, Kemble at 
left half, Stiles at right half and Thayer at fullback. 
But as “Cocky” explicitly stated that no one could be 
sure of his position until he had definitely earned it, 
and as none save Henning and “Wink” Coles kept 
his place throughout the whole half-hour, neither Clif 
nor Tom indulged in self-congratulation. Clif had 
Patch and Gosman to fight for the right end position, 
and Tom was always aware that Gillespie and Heard 
were following close behind, awaiting their turns. 
Mr. Babcock made them work hard, but they had plenty 
of enthusiasm and liked working. Now and then a 


86 


MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 


word, or perhaps a brief halt while the coach stared 
silently toward the First Team players, kept the in¬ 
centive in mind. They were there to mold themselves 
into a first-class fighting unit so that they might meet 
the friendly enemy on fairly even terms, and so serve 
as the whetstone against which the latter was to be 
shaped and edged into a conquering weapon. But— 
and they dwelt relishingly on this—if the whetstone 
sometimes proved too hard for the steel, why, so much 
the better for every one! In other words, duty de¬ 
manded that they prove themselves a worthy foe, and 
inclination kept a full jump ahead of duty! There 
were no personal grudges being nursed: no player on 
the Scrub had a bone to pick with any member of the 
other team; but there was, nevertheless, the convic¬ 
tion, shared by all, that the wisdom of the Head Coach’s 
selections had yet to be proved, and it was up to them 
to show that proof didn’t exist! In such a spirit, 
then, the Wyndham Scrub Team—or “Mr. Babcock’s 
Team,” as the Lantern called it—started forth. 

The first meeting of the Scrub and the First took 
place in a drizzle of rain and, partly for that reason, 
but more especially because Mr. Otis’s charges had a 
game the next day, the encounter was slow and tame. 
There were two scrimmages of some ten minutes each, 
the first with the first-string line-up, and the second 
with the substitutes. Play was continually stopped by 
the Head Coach for criticism and instruction, the ball 
was brought back half a dozen times because some¬ 
thing had not gone just right, and, finally, when the 

87 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


pigskin had been slapped down on the soggy ground 
close to the Scrub’s fifteen-yard line by Captain Loth- 
rop after a savage romp through the enemy’s left wing, 
“G.G.” ordered a dropkick, and Houston, playing 
quarter, mishandled the wet ball so that it banged into 
the crowd, and was chased to the side-line and downed 
by Clif. It was only in the second period, however, 
when faced by the First Team substitutes that the 
Scrub could show any offense. Then, with fewer in¬ 
terruptions, the Second’s backs got to working and 
made the most of the opponents’ right side, slamming 
through a dozen times before they were finally stopped. 
But the First Team’s twelve yards was the nearest the 
Scrubs could approach to the goal, and from there, 
when two tries had been smeared, Sim Jackson booted 
for a miss. A few minutes later a First Team sub¬ 
stitute, and a third-string man at that, scooped up a 
trickling ball and galloped for some forty yards to 
the Scrub’s goal-line, making the only score of the 
day, and registering the Scrub’s first defeat. On the 
whole, Mr. Babcock’s warriors didn’t cover themselves 
with glory during their premiere. The coach, patiently 
and cheerfully explaining their shortcomings after¬ 
wards, was, it seemed, far less depressed than the 
players. 

“What was wrong to-day can be corrected to-mor¬ 
row,” he ended. “I’m not expecting you fellows to 
play perfect football yet. I’m satisfied if you realize 
your mistakes when you make them, and I think you 
do. You won’t make me mad until you make the same 
88 




MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 


mistakes the second time—or the third. When a player 
knows he’s wrong there’s hope for him: when he can’t 
see it, he’s useless. Some of you fellows showed real 
stuff to-day. You, Jackson, for one. You mixed only 
one signal, and you kept your team on the jump. And 
Ridgway held the center nicely. And two or three 
others of you deserve a good word; Bingham, for in¬ 
stance. There was no one within two yards of him 
when he got that ball after the blocked kick. Remem¬ 
ber, fellows, that every loose ball has ‘Touchdown’ 
written on it in big red letters! Patch, you’d better 
let Farrell see that hand. Looks rather like a dislo¬ 
cation from the swelling. We’ll try to get started at 
two to-morrow, fellows, so that we can see some of 
the game. I want every one of you to watch the 
First Team players carefully every chance you get. 
Keep your eye on the men you’ll play against and see 
where they’re weak. And try to guess the plays before 
they start. Watch the backs and see what you can 
learn from the way they stand. Some players will give 
away the play time and again if you know the language 
of signs!” 

Clif wasn’t nearly as excited over his father’s visit 
on the morrow as he had expected to be. Of course 
he was awfully glad he was coming, and he wanted to 
see him a whole lot and there were loads of things he 
had saved up to tell him, but he went to sleep that 
Friday night as soon as his head touched the pillow 
and awoke the next morning to only the mildest thrill. 
Mr. Bingham rolled up the drive in the blue car about 
89 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


one o’clock, and Clif, who had hurried through his 
dinner, was awaiting him at the steps. Mr. Bingham 
said “Hello, son,” very casually, and Clif grinned, 
and said “Hello, dad” in much the same tone. But 
they shook hands very hard and, after the car had 
been parked at the end of the drive, they made their 
way to Number 17 with the older man’s arm about 
the boy’s shoulder. Clif was a little bit conscious of 
that arm as they passed the recreation room and Office, 
but he carried off the situation gracefully. If any of 
the fellows they met felt any inclination toward ridi¬ 
cule Clif’s sharp eyes failed to detect the fact. Gen¬ 
erally what he read on their passing countenances was 
admiration for that well-built, handsome, smiling father 
of his, and Clif forgot his momentary embarrassment 
and was proud and pleased. 

Oddly enough—or so it seemed to Clif—his father 
and Walter Treat took to each other instantly, and 
Clif was a trifle annoyed to discover that Walter’s 
acceptance of his father seemed more important to 
him than his father’s approval of Walter! Just as 
though, he reflected later as he hurried away to the 
field, it mattered a bit what Walter thought! But he 
was glad that his roommate had offered to look after 
the visitor during practice. They didn’t meet again 
until the Scrub Team, released after an hour’s strenuous 
work, invaded the grand stand to witness the last half 
of the contest with Highland School. Walter had 
somehow managed to occupy the better part of two 
seats and Clif squeezed himself down beside his father. 

90 




MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 


The Dark Blue had scored a field-goal in the second 
period, but had not been able to cross the enemy’s goal¬ 
line. Highland, playing a far better defensive than 
offensive game, had failed to score. In the third 
quarter Fargo and Jenkins between them took the ball 
to the enemy’s eleven yards from where a forward-pass 
grounded, and from where, on fourth down, Fargo’s 
end run was stopped on the eight yards. It was not 
until late in the last period that Wyndham got her 
second score. Then, after a long run by Whitemill 
had brought the battle to Highland’s thirty-yard line. 
Fargo dashed past tackle for eight, threw across center 
to Archer for nine more, and then took the ball on the 
thirteen yards and, with the other backs faking a tan¬ 
dem on the right of center, tore through on the left, 
shook off three tackles and crossed the goal-line stand¬ 
ing up! 

Stoddard was hurried in the try-for-point, but the 
ball shot off to the right, and Wyndham had to be 
satisfied with nine points as her share of the afternoon’s 
diversion. Highland had nothing left to offer in the 
way of attack, and the rest of the final period passed 
with the ball see-sawing back and forth about the 
center of the field, Coach Otis sending in substitutes 
lavishly, and the stand gradually emptying. 

There was just time to ride into the village with dad 
and see him safely settled at the Inn before six o’clock. 
Then Clif hurried back to supper, secured permission 
to spend the evening outside, and, feeling a wee bit 
important, strode down the drive at seven, dressed 
9 1 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


in his best. Mr. Bingham had discovered a billiard 
table at the Inn, and was knocking the balls around 
when Clif found him. “Get your cue, son,” he said. 
“You’ll find one there with a tip if you look hard. 
I haven’t whaled you for a long time!” 

Clif, who didn’t care much for billiards, consented 
to humor the other, but he had no idea of spending the 
evening in such unexciting fashion, and when eight 
o’clock arrived he hauled an unenthusiastic parent across 
the street to Freeburg’s one palace of amusement, the 
Coliseum. The Coliseum was about the size of the 
library back home in Providence, but it was clean and 
it offered good, if not recent, pictures. Mr. Bingham 
professed to be greatly awed by the red, white and 
blue splendor of the exterior and embarrassed Clif 
somewhat by insisting on viewing the gaudy and start¬ 
ling pictures in the small lobby painstakingly before 
purchasing tickets from the interested young lady who 
chewed her gum so rhythmically inside the glass cage. 
Aware of the curious stares of theater-going Freeburg, 
Clif tugged at his father’s arm. 

“Oh, come on, dad!” he begged. 

But Mr. Bingham was not to be hurried. “I want 
to be sure,” he declared sedately, “that everything is 
quite proper, Clif. You know there’s a good deal 
being said these days about the influence of moving 
pictures on the young, and I’d very much dislike to 
have you tell me in later years that you traced your 
downfall to the night I took you to see—now what 
the dickens—ah, here it is—to see ‘Outlawed by 
92 




MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 


Honor’! To me, Clif, this man, Johnny Rick, looks 
rather a desperate character. Isn’t he killing the gentle¬ 
man with the drooping, black mustache in that pic¬ 
ture ?” 

“Aw, dad!” whispered Clif. 

“All right, but I’ll ask for seats well away from the 
stage, son. Pistol shooting always makes me jump.” 

In spite of the fun Mr. Bingham poked at the en¬ 
tertainment provided by the Coliseum that evening, it 
would have been apparent to any one that he got more 
pleasure from it than the more blase Clif. He became 
visibly excited when, in the fourth reel, the redoubt¬ 
able hero, the aforementioned Mr. Rick, dashed into 
the deserted cabin, seized the heroine in his elastic- 
banded arms, with not even a glance at the sizzling 
fuse that led to the enormous can of dynamite, dashed 
out again and spurred his faithful horse to safety. 
Of course Clif knew perfectly well that the cabin 
wouldn’t blow up until the hero was well out of the 
way, but apparently the idea hadn’t occurred to his 
father, for the latter relapsed, exhausted by emotion, 
against Clif’s shoulder. Fathers are sometimes very 
trying. 

On Sunday there was a banquet for four at the Inn. 
Clif had all along intended to invite Tom to dinner 
on this occasion, but the inclusion of Walter in the 
party had been Mr. Bingham’s idea. Not that Clif 
really minded. It merely hadn’t and wouldn’t have 
occurred to him. Walter was rather an addition, as 
it turned out, for “the beggar could talk about any- 
93 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


thing,” as Tom put it, and Tom didn’t care a great 
deal who talked so long as he was able to devote him¬ 
self undisturbedly to the chief matter in hand, which 
on this occasion was putting away a very considerable 
amount of broiled chicken and appropriate trimmings. 
Walter and Mr. Bingham became involved in an ear¬ 
nest, though friendly, argument over the coffee, as to 
the relative values of classical and practical educations, 
a discussion that rather bored the others. After the 
question had been settled to the satisfaction of both 
contenders, following the yielding of much ground by 
each, the car was brought forth from a nearby garage, 
and, with Clif at the wheel and Tom beside him, they 
set forth to see as much of the world as was practicable 
in the two hours left at Mr. Bingham’s disposal. 

They got back to West Hall at a quarter past four 
and Mr. Bingham said good-by and swung the car 
toward Providence. Saying good-by this time hadn’t 
been hard at all, Clif thought as he followed Walter 
and Tom into the Hall. He felt a little guilty about it. 

On Monday the Scrub had an easy session when it 
went over to the enemy’s lair, for many of the latter, 
all those who had taken any considerable part in the 
Highland game, had been excused. The Scrub showed 
up better, under these circumstances, and scored twice 
to the First Team’s once. Although the honor of mak¬ 
ing the first score of the season fell to Sim Jackson 
when he booted an easy field-goal, to Thomas Acker¬ 
man Kemble was credited the first crossing of the 
enemy’s goal-line. That historic event occurred in the 
94 




MR . BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 


last period when, held for three downs by a horde 
of substitutes writhing under “G.G.’s” caustic com¬ 
ments, Sim slipped the pigskin to Tom on a delayed 
pass, and Tom flashed around the right and wormed 
through in some remarkable way, reaching the goal¬ 
line without much opposition until a frantic back 
tackled and accompanied him across the last two yards. 
Being unable to shake off the enemy, Tom just took 
him along. 

Although the Scrub’s victory had been secured from 
a much weakened First, it held some glory, and the 
Scrub made the most of it. It gave them confidence, 
and the next afternoon, when the first-string men were 
back on the job, Mr. Babcock’s disciples showed quite 
a nice brand of football. Of course the First had its 
way in the end, but it had to fight for it, and fight 
hard. Ike Patch started at left end for the Scrub, 
but Clif displaced him after five minutes, and was 
allowed to play through. Ever since Clif had chased 
down that loose ball on Friday “Cocky” had seemed 
to hold him in deep respect, and Tom, not at all cer¬ 
tain of his own position, declared that Clif had 
“vamped” the coach, and was settled for the season. 
Clif began to believe it himself by Wednesday. 

On that afternoon the audience, looking on from a 
windswept stand and shivering under sweaters, saw 
a very pretty practice game. The Scrubs romped in 
from the suburbs armed with three brand-new plays 
meticulously designed by Mr. Babcock to take advan¬ 
tage of the enemy’s weaknesses. The principal weak- 
95 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


ness just then was the lack of a good defense against 
forward-passes, and although the Scrub had yet to 
show any startling proficiency in passing, “Cocky” had 
provided two plays that might benefit his team. These 
plays, together with a third that didn’t rely on tossing 
the ball into the teeth of an October gale for success, 
had been hastily and not too thoroughly taught that 
afternoon, and Sim Jackson’s brain was still roiled by 
his attempt to add this fresh matter to all the other 
stored there. The Scrub Team to-day was on its toes 
from the start. Somehow it had become inbued with 
the notion that it was good! And when a team gets 
that idea in its head, and is willing to work like the 
dickens to prove that it is correct, why, that team is 
hard to stop. 

To-day was no sort of day to slow up play for in¬ 
struction, and so Mr. Otis swallowed many remarks 
that almost choked him and let the battle surge. And it 
surely surged. The very appearance of the Scrub 
players had been an affront, with their cocksure swag¬ 
gering as they took the field, and now, with the war on, 
their behavior was preposterously insulting. The poor 
weaklings, culls from the First Team orchard, so to 
speak, acted as if they thought themselves real timber! 
It was well-nigh sickening to First Team sensibilities, 
and so the First Team set itself to inflict disciplinary 
punishment. For a while it seemed that the Scrub 
was due to emerge from the engagement with a 
chastened spirit, but that was only for a while, and 
a brief while at that. Having allowed the First 
96 




MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 


to reach the fouiteen yards, though far from willingly, 
the Scrub dug its cleats, and gave an excellent imita¬ 
tion of a stone wall. Against that wall Quarterback 
Stoddard dashed Fargo and Jensen and Fargo again, 
and when the three attempts had been made the wall 
was scarcely dented. The First was plainly puzzled; 
puzzled and angry too. But that any Scrub—at least 
any Scrub so recently born—could actually hold the 
first for four downs was unthinkable, and so, scorn¬ 
ing to be satisfied with the three points a field-goal 
would have given, Stoddard unwisely pulled Captain 
Lothrop out of the line and instructed him, by means 
of signals, to bust through and put the ball down not 
short of the four yards. Unfortunately, Stoddard lost 
track of the fact that Dave's place at left guard was 
being handed over to Sproule, playing half instead 
of Whitemill. When the ball was snapped, Clem Hen¬ 
ning drew Sproule forward on his nose, strode over 
him and stopped Captain Dave neatly and expeditiously 
for a gain of some eighteen inches. Dazed, First 
yielded the pigskin. 

Any one knows that the only thing to do when the 
ball comes into your possession close to your goal is 
to punt it away from there. So Sim did something 
else! He called “Kemble back!” the ball was shot to 
Tom from center, and Tom took three steps back and 
to his left, and swept the pigskin down the field with 
an overhand spiral throw. Clif had let the opposing 
end by outside, evaded a back and was clear. Not far 
behind him ran Sim. Toward them both came the ball. 
9 ? 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Sim turned, looked and panted: “Take it!” Clif 
whirled, stood and held his hands out. Never before 
in a contest had he ever attempted a long catch of a 
forward-pass, and he wished devoutly that the ball 
had gone to Sim. Without seeing he knew that the 
whole field of players was converging on him. Then 
the ball struck his hands, and by some miracle, as it 
seemed to him, stuck! Turning quickly, he had a 
blurred vision of Sim crashing into an opponent. The 
background of the brief picture was a confusion of 
moving bodies, looming larger with each instant. 

Then he dug out, the ball tucked firmly between arm 
and body, his right hand outstretched for action. He 
could run, could Clif, and he ran now, but there was 
the First Team quarter bearing diagonally across to 
intercept him, and the fleet Jensen was close behind. 
It seemed to Clif that he had taken but a dozen strides 
when Jensen shot for him, and, despite his plunge to 
the right, caught him, and brought him crashing down, 
and yet when he was pulled, breathless, to his feet a 
moment later, there was the fifty-yard line behind the 
ball! Somehow he had successfully caught a thirty- 
yard pass, and carried it seventeen yards further! The 
Scrub assailed him as one man, and did him painful 
honor! 

The First was disgruntled, and Mr. Otis’s disgusted 
observations did little to soothe it. Tom, smiting Clif 
mightily between his shoulders and depriving him mo¬ 
mentarily of what little breath he had left after being 
thumped to earth by Stoddard, and sat on by Jensen, 
98 




MR . BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT 


grinned expansively and shouted “Good stuff,” old 
son! That’s the way to treat ’em!” 

Sim called on Thayer for a fullback buck and 
Johnny was piled up with a sickening thud. The First 
was through with nonsense! Stiles tried to slip off 
tackle, and was thrown for a loss, but a too-eager First 
Team end had been off-side and the ball went to the 
forty-four, and it was still second down. Stiles tried 
the same play again and got a yard. Kemble went back 
and Sim cut through for three. Kemble punted to the 
five-yard line, and Jensen ran the ball back to the 
seventeen. 

Fargo made two and then four through Greene. 
Sproule, on an end run, added two more and Fargo 
punted short to the Scrub’s forty-six, where the ball 
went out. Adams lost three yards on an end-round 
play. Kemble went back to punting position, and, with 
a widespread formation, hurled to the left for twelve 
yards, where Stiles pulled it down, only to lose it. 
Thayer took Kemble’s place up-field, but the ball went 
to Kemble instead, and he raced back behind Thayer 
and again threw forward, this time far down the field. 
The throw was hurried, for the First piled through 
desperately, and were all around Tom when the ball 
got away. Thayer, however, did good work as defense, 
and the pass reached its destination. The destination 
was Jeff Adams, right end. Jeff had crossed behind 
the enemy, and was uncovered. The rest is history. 


99 



CHAPTER IX 

AN “UNEXPECTED” HONOR 


J EFF had just twenty-eight yards to go for a 
touchdown, and he covered twenty-two of them 
before he was threatened. Then Drayton, right 
end, overhauled him. But after the tackle Jeff made 
three good yards, and when the whistle sounded, the 
pigskin lay no more than four feet from the last white¬ 
washed streak. A horn tooted hoarsely, but “G.G.” 
would have none of it. 

“Play on,” he ordered grimly. “Two minutes more, 
First!” 

The Scrub exulted. They would have cheered Mr. 
Otis if there had been time. The First set grimly to 
work to hold the enemy at bay, and Thayer’s first 
smash at the line netted inches only. But neither Sim 
nor the big fullback was discouraged. Four feet was 
only four feet, and Johnny could take that in a stride! 
But he had to have a hole, and the center of the First’s 
panting, crouching line offered not even a crevice. So 
Sim shifted to his right, playing beyond end himself, 
and the Scrub drove straight ahead, wedging between 
guard and tackle, and Thayer shot up and forward, and 
the whistle blew and the ball was over! 

To make assurances doubly sure, Sim Jackson gave 
way to Hoppin, and “Hop,” standing safely away 
ioo 


AN cc UNEXPECTED " HONOR 


from his line, took a long and rather ragged pass from 
“Babe” Ridgway, and toed it neatly over the bar. 
And the Scrub had scored on the First—the real, hon- 
est-to-goodness First, and not a mess of substitutes— 
and every one was happy. Every one, that is, except 
the First! 

The period ended a minute later, and the Scrub went 
carousing away to the lee of the stand and pulled 
blankets about them, and talked it all over gleefully. 
Perhaps they made more of it than it was worth, both 
then and later, but, on the other hand, perhaps they 
didn’t. It might, you see, be a long, long time before 
they had another chance to celebrate any such decisive 
victory as they had scored that day! 

There was more to follow, but it wasn’t likely that 
Mr. Otis would put the same line-up back. Nor did 
he. A few first string forwards faced the Scrub in 
the second scrimmage, but they melted away as time 
went on, giving place to substitutes until at last a 
whole new team fought for the honor of the First. 
And Mr. Babcock freshened his bunch, too. He didn’t 
have enough men for a whole new team, but he did 
the best he could, and only Clem Henning and “Wink” 
Coles played to the end. Clif didn’t see any work in 
that session, while Tom dropped out soon after the 
start to make way for Ike Patch. They crouched to¬ 
gether, bundled under their own blankets and another, 
and watched intensely. To you or me that second 
scrimmage wouldn’t have proved very interesting. In 
fact, I doubt if either of us would have stayed two 
IOI 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


minutes out there in that chilling gale. But Clif and 
Tom found the spectacle a most thrilling one, groan¬ 
ing when “Swede” Hanbury, the second-string full 
back, romped through the Scrub for twelve long yards 
and exulting shrilly when “Wink” plunged through 
and fell on a fumbled ball at a moment when disaster 
threatened the Scrub, seven yards from its goal. Yes, 
though neither side scored, though misplays were fre¬ 
quent and opportunities wasted, Clif and Tom found 
the contest heart-filling enough. 

That evening the Scrub was carelessly enough chris¬ 
tened with a name that stuck the season through. Some 
unknown witness of the afternoon’s struggle uttered 
the phrase, and it met with favor from a listener, and 
was repeated, probably as his own, and by the next 
afternoon it had captured popularity, and written itself 
into school language. After that it was never, save 
officially or in the polite pages of The Lantern, “Mr. 
Babcock’s Team.” Nor was it the “Second.” It was 
the “Fighting Scrub.” 

That was a name to live up to, and the Scrub, from 
Adams to Tyson, taking it alphabetically, resolved to 
merit it. Mr. Babcock smiled in his sleeve. He be¬ 
lieved in fight. Fighting, though, won’t always win, 
especially if the odds against the fighter are long. And 
if the Scrub thought to repeat its victory of Thursday 
right away it was doomed to disappointment. Because 
on Friday, during the brief ten minutes of real scrim¬ 
mage that took place, the First, having knocked to¬ 
gether a hasty and temporary defense against forward- 
102 




AN “UNEXPECTED” HONOR 


passes, seized the Scrub by the nape of its neck and 
fairly wiped up the gridiron with it. Smarting under 
the defeat of the day before, and the gibes of its school¬ 
mates, it sought vengeance and obtained it in hand- 
fulls. It scored two touchdowns and followed the 
second with a goal, and later, in the gymnasium, held 
up thirteen points for the infuriation of the Scrub. 
The Scrub, which had “rubbed it in” good and hard 
yesterday, tried its best to grin and found the effort 
painful. 

That evening twenty youths crowded into Clem Hen¬ 
ning’s room, which he shared with Jimmy Ames, and, 
occupying practically every horizontal surface therein, 
set about the election of a captain. A week before the 
undertaking had not seemed important. Any fellow 
would do; especially Clem, who was already holding 
down the job temporarily. But since a week ago the 
lowly Scrub had become the Fighting Scrub. It had 
seen service, acquired traditions, and won honor. If 
was no longer merely twenty youths brought together 
by chance. It was a fellowship, a fraternity, a shoul- 
der-to-shoulder clan. It was—well, it was the Fight¬ 
ing Scrub! And so the election of a leader had 
suddenly become a matter of vast importance, some¬ 
thing to be done carefully, and only after much 
thought. 

A good deal of the thinking had been done by Tom, 
and he had shared some of his thoughts with Clif. 
But not all, as it turned out. “I was talking with Clem 
Henning this afternoon,” Tom announced on Wed- 
103 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


nesday, “and he says he doesn’t want to be captain. 
Says he won’t be if he has to.” 

“Guess it will be Coles, then,” said Clif. 

“Coles is all right. But how about Jimmy Ames?” 

“Ames? Why, I don’t know. I like Coles better. 
Or Stiles.” 

“Stiles, eh? We-ell, yes, maybe. You know, Clif, 
I wouldn’t say no if they offered it to me.” 

“Offered what?” 

“Captaincy.” 

“A fat chance,” jeered Clif. “One of the old fel¬ 
lows will get it, of course. Henning ought to take it. 
He’s a First Class fellow. Either he or Ames.” 

“I don’t see that it matters what your class is,” Tom 
demurred. “I’m not saying I’m expecting to get it, 
of course, but if some one nominated me I’ll bet I’d 
get four or five votes. It would be fun to see, eh?” 

But Clif didn’t enthuse greatly. “That may be 
your idea of fun, Tom, but it isn’t mine. To stand 
for election just to see yourself licked is crazy.” 

“Heck, what’s the difference if you are licked? Say, 
if any of the crowd should put me up, vote for me once 
anyway, like a good guy, will you?” 

“I’ll second the nomination, if it’s done,” laughed 
Clif, “but I’d like to know who you think’s going to 
put you up!” 

“Well, some one might. You can’t tell. Some one 
might do it just to be funny.” 

“I don’t think it would be so blamed funny,” said 
Clif, slightly indignant. “If it comes right down to 
104 




AN " UNEXPECTED " HONOR 


brass tacks, I guess you’d make a good enough cap¬ 
tain—with me to help you!” 

Mr. Babcock had declined an invitation to be pres¬ 
ent on the momentous occasion, and so it was Clem 
Henning who coughed loudly, and said that they were 
there to elect a captain, and he guessed they’d better 
get at it, and that so far as he was concerned, he 
was out of it entirely because he didn’t know how to 
be a captain, and it was too pesky much trouble any¬ 
way! 

Much protestation followed, some of it perhaps polite 
rather than sincere, and several fellows tried to talk 
at once. “Wink” Coles finally got a hearing, and 
declared that Clem was the man for the job, and why 
not elect him, and pay no attention to what he said. 
Gillespie, known as “Gilly,” got quite eloquent, and 
reminded them that they should elect one of their num¬ 
ber who possessed the gift of leadership, and placed 
in nomination Pat Tyson. The applause was rather 
for the eloquence than the nominee, it seemed. Then 
Jackson proposed “Babe” Ridgway and “Babe” de¬ 
clined in a panic. After that proceedings slowed up. 
Clif, observing Tom, laughed to himself. Although 
Tom seemed to have not a care in the world, Clif 
thought he could detect anxiety. Evidently it oc¬ 
curred to no one to nominate Tom, even as a joke, 
and Clif was wondering whether to do it himself when 
Thayer was offered as a candidate. The applause was 
flattering, but the meeting had certainly not been 
stampeded, and Johnny, himself, was rewarding his 

105 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


sponsor with a malignant scowl. Clem spoke again 
from his precarious seat on the radiator—which, for¬ 
tunately, was not radiating to-night—and suggested 
that they get busy and do something, because it would 
be study hour in about ten minutes. 

“Maybe we’d better ballot. Jimmy, tear up a couple 
of sheets of paper from my block, will you? So far 
the candidates are Tyson, Ridgway—” 

“Nothing doing!” protested “Babe.” 

“—and Thayer. But I’m going to nominate an¬ 
other. I like the captain to be a backfield chap. After 
that he ought to play well enough to be certain of his 
place (laughter), and he ought to have a whole lot 
of fight and pep. In fact—” and Clem’s eyes twinkled 
—“he ought to be a fellow who can go after what 
he wants and get it. I nominate Kemble.” 

There was a brief instant of surprise, surprise 
plainly, oh, so plainly shared by Tom! Then came an 
astonishing amount of applause, astonishing at least 
to Clif, who was reprehensibly late in joining in it. 
Tom was shaking his head, not so much negatively as 
doubtfully. “Heck, fellows, I’m new around here, 
and I guess you want a fellow who’s been here longer. 
Henning says he won’t take it, but if we show him we 
need him—” 

“I’m out,” declared Clem, grinning across at Tom. 
“Let’s vote.” 

Jimmy Ames distributed slips of paper, pens and 
pencils passed from hand to hand, and “Wink” started 
some one’s cap around, and the slips dropped in. Then 
106 




AN “UNEXPECTED " HONOR 


Jimmy dumped the ballots on the bed, and Clem pre¬ 
pared to tabulate them on the back of an envelope ex¬ 
humed from a pocket. Lou Stiles interrupted pro¬ 
ceedings. 

“Hold on a sec! How are we doing this? Does a 
majority elect or a plurality or what?” 

“Plurality,” decided Clem, and as no one dissented 
—although Leo Gosman wanted anxiously to know 
what a plurality was—the counting proceeded, and 
after a minute, Clif read the result. “Ridgway gets 
four,” announced Clif, “Kemble ten and Tyson six. 
Kemble is elected. The meeting’s adjourned sine die, 
pro tem and e pluribus unum!” 

“Speech! Speech!” 

“I don’t know how,” responded Tom, grinning. 
“Besides, there isn’t time. But I want to say that I 
thank you fellows for the honor, and that I’ll do my 
best to help you put the Fighting Scrub on the map. 
I don’t deserve the captaincy, of course; most any of 
the rest of you would have been better; but I’ll cer¬ 
tainly try to deserve the—er—unexpected honor. 
That’s all, I guess.” 

“Hold on,” said “Babe.” “Let’s make it unanimous, 
fellows. What do you say?” 

“I’ll second that,” declared Pat Tyson good- 
naturedly. 

“Moved and seconded—” 

“You can’t! The meeting’s adjourned,” laughed 
some one. 

“Forget it! Kemble is unanimously elected Captain 
107 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


of the Wyndham—no, of the Fighting Scrub, and 
may Heaven help him!” 

To which sentiment the party laughingly dissolved, 
hurrying off to arm themselves for study hour. 

“Well, I don’t see how it happened,” said Clif as 
he and Tom went back to West. “It’s great, Tom, and 
I’m awfully pleased, but I certainly was surprised!” 

“It was a regular bolt from the blue,” agreed Tom 
gravely. “Look here, did you vote for me?” 

“Of course I did!” 

“That’s funny then.” 

“What is?” 

“I had eleven votes pledged and only got ten. Some 
lowlife went back on me!” 

“You had eleven—” A light broke on Clif. “Why 
—why,” he sputtered at last, “you blamed old fox! 
Do you mean to say that you knew all the time—” 

“Well, I couldn’t be sure,” Tom chuckled. “As it 
was, one of my pledges got away. But I sort of ex¬ 
pected, Clif.” 

“You—you politician! How’d you do it?” 

“Just got them to promise to vote for me in case 
my name was proposed. They didn’t think it would 
be, of course.” 

“I should say not! But how did—how’d it happen 
that Henning nominated you?” 

“Henning thought I was the right fellow for the 
job,” replied Tom tranquilly. 

“He did, eh? I’d like to know where he got that—” 

“Some one told him, I guess.” 

108 




AN “UNEXPECTED” HONOR 


“Some one! Huh! The some one was you, then, 
I’ll bet! Say—” 

But Tom was half-way up the stairs and Clif’s re¬ 
marks were curtailed. Turning toward Number 17, 
he shook his head helplessly. Then, however, he 
chuckled. 

After study hour Clif persuaded Tom to accompany 
him to Mr. McKnight’s. This was the evening of 
what “Lovey” called his “shindig.” Clif had visited 
his adviser several times since that first conference, but 
had never managed to attend one of the Friday night 
gatherings. Tom was far from enthusiastic, but 
yielded to his chum’s pleas. Besides, Clif accused him 
of duplicity and deceit, and several other dreadful 
things in connection with his election to the Scrub 
captaincy, and perhaps Tom felt that he owed Clif 
something in the way of apology. They found only 
eight others in Number 19 when they arrived; eight, 
that is, beside the instructor. During the next few 
minutes the number was augmented by the arrival of 
an attenuated youth with a surprisingly long neck and 
prominent Adam’s apple, which leaped convulsively 
when he talked, and a Junior who was painfully em¬ 
barrassed, and spent the hour voiceless in a corner. 

At first the guests looked to be a motley crowd, but 
after a while Clif concluded that there was nothing out 
of the ordinary about them. They represented, he 
decided, the non-athletic element of the school; or, to 
put it more fairly, the intellectual element. Tom was 
plainly sorry he had come. Introductions were neces- 
109 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


sary in many cases, though some of the fellows al¬ 
ready claimed nodding acquaintance with the two. 
Mr. McKnight had already learned of Tom’s election 
and congratulated him very warmly, thereby spread¬ 
ing the news throughout the study. The youth with 
the agitated Adam’s apple, whose name proved to be, 
appropriately enough, Baldwin, and whom Tom ever 
after alluded to as “The Pippin,” insisted on shaking 
hands a second time with Tom and “felicitating” him. 
Baldwin modestly claimed brotherhood with Tom by 
reason of being somewhat athletic himself, having 
played last year on the Second Class Tennis Team. 
Whereupon Tom said: “Fine! Tennis is a great 
game. And I like croquet, too, Baldwin.” Baldwin 
agreed that croquet was doubtless an interesting pas¬ 
time, but you could plainly see that he resented having 
it placed on a level with tennis. 

“Lovey” went to the piano and played something 
that sounded extremely difficult, and horribly mixed-up. 
Clif enjoyed watching his hands, though. Evidently 
Mr. McKnight could play well, but Clif was relieved 
when he broke into a popular song and, setting the 
example in a good baritone, persuaded most of the com¬ 
pany to sing. There were three or four vocal selec¬ 
tions rendered, and then “Lovey” moved a small table 
into the center of the big, soft rug, and served refresh¬ 
ments of sandwiches and cake, and lemonade. Eating 
appeared to loosen the tongues of the “intellectuals,” 
and soon at least four debates were under way. Bald¬ 
win, half a sandwich poised in his right hand, a glass 
no 




AN f( UNEXPECTED” HONOR 


of lemonade in the other, stood before the empty grate 
and deplored the lack of opportunity for self-expres¬ 
sion at Wyndham. Neither Clif nor Tom could hear 
him very well, but Tom stared fascinatedly at his 
throat, and murmured, “There it goes! Look at it! 
Up! Down! Up! Heck, he’s swallowed it!” 

But he hadn’t. 

Mr. McKnight sat down by Clif and talked foot¬ 
ball a while. He seemed to know a great deal about 
it, and presently Tom was weaned from his absorbed 
occupation of watching Baldwin, and took part in the 
talk. “Lovey” told them he hoped the Scrub would 
be as good this year as it had been last. “Babcock’s 
a clever coach, fellows. He’s taken some mighty un¬ 
promising material before this and turned out an 
excellent team.” Noting Tom’s grin, the instructor 
hastily amended. “I didn’t mean to say it just that 
way, Kemble,” he laughed. “From what I’ve heard 
and seen of his material this fall he’s rather better off 
than usual. To my thinking Babcock would make a 
fine First Team coach in case Mr. Otis failed us. Of 
course, though, he couldn’t give the time to it. Even 
now he’s pretty hard pressed to coach you chaps.” 

“He’s an awfully good coach, I think,” agreed Clif. 
“He gets you to do things without telling you to, 
somehow. I mean, you want to please him, you know, 
and so you—you sort of just do things without wait¬ 
ing to be told!” 

“That’s very true, Clif,” agreed Mr. McKnight. 
“He has always been able to win cooperation. We were 
hi 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


at college together, although I knew him only slightly. 
He was a class ahead of me. But it was so with every¬ 
thing he went into there. They made him captain of the 
Senior eleven his last year, and he went in and won the 
class championship. It’s like pulling teeth without gas 
to get a senior to come out and practice for football, 
but Babcock did it somehow, and they licked the sopho¬ 
mores first, and then tackled us after we had nosed 
out ahead of the freshmen. Of course we expected 
to beat them badly, and every one else expected us to, 
but Babcock worked up a cheering section with plenty 
of tin pans, and watchman’s rattles—noise was always 
part of the game—and held us for the first half. I 
was only a substitute and didn’t get into the fun until 
the last minute. We got a field-goal in the third 
quarter, and thought we had the class championship 
won. But along toward the last of it Babcock called for 
time and got his crowd together and gave instructions. 
They had been using only six or eight old plays, and 
we’d had no trouble guessing what was coming. We 
could see Babcock making a sort of diagram with 
his finger on the ground, and the others bending over 
and watching, and we laughed, and our crowd on the 
side-line made fun of them. Then they came back and 
spread themselves all across the field in a ridiculous 
sort of formation, with only two men behind the line. 
Of course we spread out to cover them, and played 
our center back, and got all set for a tricky pass. But 
we were all wrong. Their quarterback took the ball, 
and came straight through with it, and, as we were 
112 



AN “UNEXPECTED " HONOR 


wide open, he had a good start with two men making 
interference for him before we found out what was 
happening. We chased him sixty-odd yards, but every 
time one of us thought we had him, a Senior would 
crowd us off, and send us tumbling, and he went over 
right between the goal-posts—that was in the days of 
the free-try for goal—and so they licked us, seven to 
three. Babcock has told me since that he knew the 
only way to beat us was to get our forward line open, 
and that all that instruction and diagram stuff was 
merely bluff. All the instruction he gave was to the 
quarter. 'Take the ball,’ he said, 'and run it straight 
down for a score/ ” 




CHAPTER X 
CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 


HE First Team played its game away from 



home on Saturday, meeting Minster High 


School at Minster, and so, at three o’clock, 


the Scrub lined up against Freeburg High School on 
the First Team gridiron. A goodly portion of the 
student body had followed the school eleven, but 
enough fellows had remained at home to form, with 
a large delegation of high school boys and girls, a 
very respectable audience. Doctor Wyndham attended 
and remained until the third period was well along, and 
the issue had been definitely settled. Others of the 
faculty graced the occasion, too, and Mr. McKnight 
and Mr. Connover joined “Cocky” on the bench. The 
cold spell had passed, and the weather, clear and mod¬ 
erately warm, with almost no breeze, was ideal for 
football. 

The First Team had beaten the local high school by 
the score of 19 to 7, and “Cocky’s” charges were cer¬ 
tain of their ability to triumph, although none pre¬ 
dicted better than a close victory. Mr. Babcock started 
Adams, Ames, Howlett, Ridgway, Henning, Coles and 
Bingham in the line, and Jackson, Kemble, Gillespie 
and Thayer in the backfield. It was evident almost 


114 


CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 


from the first that the Scrub was by far the better 
team, with a sturdier defense, and a harder and more 
varied attack. Thayer went over for the first touch¬ 
down less than six minutes after play had begun, sub¬ 
sequent to a straight march down the field in which 
the Scrub opened wide gaps in the High School line, 
ran the ends for good gains and pulled off one for¬ 
ward-pass, Kemble to Bingham. Later, the Scrub 
started a second advance, after an exchange of punts 
had gained a few yards for the home team, and had 
reached High School's twenty-five-yard line when the 
whistle blew. Scrub lost the ball on the seventeen, 
when play had been resumed, by Thayer’s failure to 
find an opening. Two inches more would have won 
a first down. High School rushed once and then 
punted to Jackson in midfield and Sim scampered back 
sixteen yards before he was stopped. Scrub took up 
its journey again and pushed the ball across near the 
corner of the field, Kemble carrying it. Sim had 
missed the first try-for-point, but he succeeded this 
time and the Scrub had the game 13 to o. 

The half ended with no more scoring and with 
High School still on the defensive. 

Gosman went in for Adams when the third period 
began, and Ike Patch took Clif’s place at the other 
end. Later, other changes were made until “Cocky’s” 
complete roster had seen service. Duval, who played 
quarter in the last period, handled the team so well 
that Sim Jackson looked distinctly anxious! High 
School threatened once in the third quarter, getting 
115 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


the ball to Scrub’s twenty-one, but the home team 
stiffened and High School’s attempt at a field-goal was 
knocked down by “Babe” and captured on the thirty- 
four yards by McMurtry. Scrub worked back to the 
enemy’s thirty-three with two good forward-passes, 
a long run by Stiles, back at right half, and some good 
line plunging by Hoppin and Kemble. But on the 
thirty-three Stiles fumbled and, although he recovered 
the ball, Scrub was set back twelve yards. Three tries, 
one of them a forward-pass that grounded, gained but 
six yards and Tom punted over the line. 

High School kept the ball from the twenty-yard 
line to midfield where a long forward-pass was inter¬ 
cepted by “Wink” Coles, and carried to the enemy’s 
thirty-eight. “Wink” got knocked breathless in the 
proceeding, and time was called. Heard took his 
place. The quarter ended after the next play. In 
the last period Scrub again nearly secured a touchdown, 
but down on High School’s twelve yards some one 
mixed the signals and a four-yard loss resulted. On 
the subsequent play Scrub was off-side and the pig¬ 
skin again went back. Finally, with five yards to go 
on third down, Tom tried a forward heave to Stiles 
that grounded behind the line. That was the final 
threat by either side and some fifteen minutes later the 
last whistle sounded, the score still 13 to o. 

Over at Minster the First had won a somewhat hol¬ 
low victory to the tune of 26 to 6, and so Wyndham 
could crow that Saturday evening. The First Team, 
arriving in the dining hall practically in a body some 
116 




CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 


fifteen minutes after supper had begun, received a 
salvo of hand-clapping as it made its way to the two 
training tables at the end of the room. The Scrub, 
distributed here and there about the hall, received no 
applause, but every member of it knew where glory 
really belonged! Hadn’t they completely shut out a 
team that had scored on the First, but a fortnight ago? 
They had! Well, then! 

Besides, if Charlie Duval hadn’t called for a pass 
over the line that time, if he had let Kemble shoot the 
ball over the end, why, it was dollars to doughnuts 
they’d have had another score. Or if Stiles hadn’t 
fumbled on High School’s thirty-three before that— 
Why, any one could see that Scrub’s total ought really 
to have been 19, at least; maybe 20; and 19 was all 
that the First had been able to make against High 
School! Then just because the First ran up a 26 to 
6 score against a weak team over at Minster every one 
had to go crazy about it! Huh! 

At Wyndham you made an arrangement with a 
citizen of Greek birth named—well, no one could 
pronounce his name in its entirety, but you called 
him “Poppy,” which was about a quarter of the whole 
—for your Sunday paper. “Poppy” delivered it, along 
with some forty others, at the entrance. After break¬ 
fast—before if you had time—you went and got it. 
“Poppy,” however, didn’t attempt to mark each sub¬ 
scriber’s name on his paper. He merely delivered the 
required assortment, and let you do your own select¬ 
ing. Nine times out of ten you got a paper. Some- 

11 7 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


times it wasn’t the one you had ordered, but it was 
better than none, and after you had read it you ex¬ 
changed with some one else for the one you preferred. 
But on the Sunday morning following the Scrub’s 
glorious victory over Freeburg High School, a victory 
he had talked over the evening before until his throat 
had become dry, Clif found only two papers left, one 
a Boston publication, and the other, boasting not even 
a colored supplement, a stingy thing from the state 
capital. 

“I might have known I’d get left if I came down 
this late,” mourned Clif. He had tarried upstairs to 
collect his laundry, and make out the list, a duty gen¬ 
erally put off until later in the morning. He picked 
up the Boston paper tentatively, shook his head, and 
laid it down again just as its rightful owner appeared, 
viewing Clif with deep suspicion. There was plenty 
of time to go to the village if he could get permission, 
and he ascended the stairs again and sought Number 
19. There Mr. McKnight, after politely offering Clif 
the use of his own New York Times, signed his name 
to a gray slip of paper and Clif started for the village. 

It was quite warm this morning, much warmer than 
yesterday, and the sun turned the yellowing maples, 
and birches to pure gold. The elms along the drive 
were already littering the gravel with their rusty brown 
leaves. It was a lazy sort of a day, and Clif’s steps, 
once he was in the fuller sunlight of Oak Street, grew 
slower and slower, until he was fairly dawdling along. 
He was still dawdling when he crossed Hubbard Street 
118 



CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 


and passed the Inn, before which several visiting auto¬ 
mobiles were parked. His thoughts went back to a 
week ago, and his father’s visit, and the drive to Cot- 
terville, and he was almost to State Street, beyond 
which, on the other side of Oak, ‘‘Poppy’s” combined 
fruit, candy, and news emporium stood, when some¬ 
thing claimed his interest, and brought his thoughts 
back to the present. 

The something was a wheel chair which was being 
slowly propelled along the sidewalk by its occupant. 
At the distance of half a block Loring Deane was 
easily recognizable and Clif wondered at finding the 
boy alone so far from the school. Evidently he, too, 
had been to “Poppy’s” for the sunlight shone garishly 
on the colored outer section of the paper in his lap. 
Approaching, although on the opposite side of Oak 
Street, Clif considered offering his assistance again. 
It was a long way back to school, and he didn’t see 
how Deane could manage the curbings. But he did 
see a moment later, for the wheel chair came to a place 
where the sidewalk sloped to meet the street level at the 
entrance of a narrow alley, and the occupant turned 
his vehicle to the right, eased it down the short descent, 
and headed obliquely toward the State Street inter¬ 
section and Clif. 

“I guess I’ll offer to push him back,” thought Clif. 
“He won’t mind waiting while I get my paper.” He 
had already started to put the thought to action when 
an automobile came charging eastward through State 
Street. Involuntarily Clif drew back from the curb- 
119 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


ing. Then a motion of the arms grasping the wheel 
of the car sent Clif’s heart into his throat. The driver 
was going to swing south, had already slowed slightly 
and was turning the steering wheel hard to the right. 
Squarely in the middle of the street was the wheel 
chair. Its occupant, unaware of the danger an in¬ 
stant before, now heard, and saw the car lurching 
around the corner scarcely forty feet away. For a mo¬ 
ment irresolution stayed the hands on the wheels. 
Then, bending forward, Loring strove desperately 
to roll the chair to safety. 

All this Clif saw ere he dashed forward. As he 
raced toward the boy in the chair, he was aware of 
the throbbing of the big automobile almost beside him, 
heard a spasmodic blast from the horn, and the screech¬ 
ing of hastily applied brakes. Then he had reached 
the chair and seized one arm of it, dragging it fran¬ 
tically toward the sidewalk. Almost simultaneously 
something huge and black rushed past, the wheel chair 
was almost wrenched from his grasp, there was a sharp 
report, and the metallic sound of crashing glass and 
silence! 

Coming swiftly, the car had been unable to make 
the turn abruptly, and had swung well toward the left 
side of Oak Street. The building on the corner had 
obscured the driver’s view of what lay ahead until he 
had started to turn. Then he had desperately avoided 
the wheel chair by swerving hard to the right, graz¬ 
ing the object in passing and, in spite of brakes, had 
swung onto the sidewalk, demolishing an iron hitch- 
120 




CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 


ing post—perhaps Freeburg’s last reminder of the 
Horse Age—and plunged obliquely into the front of 
“Poppy’s” emporium! When, dazedly, Clif looked, 
the farther sidewalk was strewed with papers and 
oranges and shattered glass, and splintered boxes and 
“Poppy” himself, white-faced but voluble, was shaking 
a huge fist in the face of the scared driver. 

Two minutes before it would have been difficult to 
count a dozen persons on the whole length of Oak 
Street. Now thrice that many were gathered about the 
scene of the accident and every instant saw the num¬ 
ber increase. Clif’s gaze dropped to Loring Deane. 
The latter was looking up at him questioningly. His 
face was pale, but he was smiling bravely enough. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

“Plenty,” answered Clif grimly. He swung the 
chair around so that its occupant could see for him¬ 
self. The driver of the badly damaged car had 
alighted, but in the rear seat two frightened women 
were staring strainedly about them. The town con¬ 
stable, stiffly attired for church, had arrived, and his 
thin, indignantly high-pitched voice was to be heard 
above the excited chatter of the throng. “You was 
goin’ too fast! I seen you! You was goin’ too fast!” 

“I’m very sorry,” said Loring. “It was my fault.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” Clif protested. “That man came 
around the corner at twenty miles an hour, easy. He 
was hitting thirty until he started to turn! It’s a 
wonder he didn’t get you, Deane. He’s smashed the 
handles clean off.” Clif retrieved the broken part 


121 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


from the asphalt. It didn’t look to be of any further 
use, however, and he tossed it into the gutter. 

“He was driving too fast,” Loring was saying, “but 
I shouldn’t have gone into the street alone. I told 
Wattles I’d stay there until he got back.” 

“Wattles ? Is that the man who pushes you around ? 
Well, what’s become of him?” 

“I don’t know.” Loring shook his head perplex¬ 
edly. It wasn’t like the faithful Wattles to remain away 
at such a time. “He went across to the drug store. 
Perhaps he’s over there.” Loring nodded across the 
street. 

“I’ll see if I can find him.” Clif wasn’t averse to 
seeing how the car had fared, and how badly “Poppy’s” 
store had suffered. “I’ll pull you up on the sidewalk 
first, though.” He did so, not without difficuty, and 
started away. “I’ll be back in a second,” he called. 
“If I can’t find him I’ll push you home.” 

“Thanks, but he’s sure to be here soon,” answered 
Loring. 

Clif had to push hard to get within viewing dis¬ 
tance of the car since by now all Freeburg—at least, 
all of male Freeburg—had reached the scene. The 
car’s driver and the constable and “Poppy” were in 
consultation. “Poppy” was calmer, but there was that 
in his handsome, brigandish countenance which told 
Clif that he would suffer no financial loss by reason of 
the accident. Underfoot Sunday papers ruffled, and 
golden oranges and glistening apples were being sal¬ 
vaged by willing hands. “Poppy’s” front and side 
122 




CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 


windows were ruins, for the heavy car had struck 
fairly at the angle of sidewalk and entrance. The 
car itself was sadly damaged, although on close in¬ 
spection Clif decided that it had got off pretty well. 
Collision with the iron post had simultaneously de¬ 
molished post, and car bumper, and the subsequent 
impact had crumpled in the radiator, and torn away 
one mudguard. Also one wheel was broken. The 
constable began to look for witnesses and Clif edged 
swiftly toward the outer rim of the throng. The 
missing Wattles was not to be seen. He hurried 
back across the street, now fairly choked by automo¬ 
biles, and saw a man in a black brilliantine coat con¬ 
versing with Loring Deane. 

“I wonder if you’d mind pushing me back to the 
drugstore,” said Loring as Clif joined him. “Poor 
old Wattles has fainted, he says.” 

The drug clerk assented, his gaze darting curiously 
across the street. “Yeah, he was just going out when 
the smash came, and he dropped in a heap. We got 
him ’round all right in a ji;ffy, but he’s still sort of 
wobbly. I’ll run across and see what’s happened.” 

Wattles was a woebegone looking object when they 
reached the drug store. Seated decorously erect in a 
chair, his derby clasped fixedly on his knees, he was 
the color of yellow parchment and his long face was 
the unhappiest thing Clif had ever seen. Even when 
the wheel chair rolled toward him Wattles’s gloom 
failed to lighten. He moistened his lips with an effort 
and: 


123 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


‘'You oughtn’t to have done it, Mister Loring,” he 
croaked. "You ought never to have done it. What 
would I have said to your father, sir, if—if—” 

"Quite right,” agreed Loring soothingly. "I 
shouldn’t have done it, Wattles. How are you feel¬ 
ing now?” 

"Better, sir, thanks. But, Mister Loring, when I 
looked up the street, and saw that automobile right 
atop of you, like, I—I had a frightful shock, sir! I 
really did! I just went right off!” 

"Too bad, Wattles. I’m beastly sorry. Look here, 
you’d better not try to walk back. Bingham here 
will look after me. I’ll see if we can’t get a lift for 
you.” 

But Wattles arose superbly, even majestically—if 
also somewhat unsteadily—and placed his hat deter¬ 
minedly on his head. "Oh, no, sir, I’m quite all right 
now! It was merely—merely momentary, sir. The 
air will quite restore me, Mister Loring.” 

Loring looked doubtful and turned to Clif for an 
opinion, but Clif had been engaged in conversation by 
Mr. Burger, the proprietor, eager to learn about the 
accident, and whether any one had been injured. So 
Loring consented to Wattles’ return afoot and, after 
thanking the proprietor, the three departed. Wattles’ 
return to normal was instant when he had reached the 
sidewalk, and may have been due to any one of three 
things or a combination of all; the interesting spec¬ 
tacle across the street, the revivifying influence of 
fresh air or the shocking discovery that the handle- 
124 




CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 


bar, by which he had so long manipulated the chair, 
was totally missing. Personally I think it was the 
latter, for Wattles seemed absolutely unable to recon¬ 
cile himself to the loss of the handle, and propelled the 
chair in such an erratic, zig-zag fashion that Clif in¬ 
sisted on taking his place. Wattles, murmuring feeble, 
embarrassed protests, gave way and Clif became the 
motive power. 

Fortunately public interest was so entirely centered 
about the battered car, and more battered store that 
no one paid heed to the disappearanc of two of the 
most important witnesses to the affair. For his part, 
Clif had no desire to be called on to testify against 
the driver of the car. The latter had undeniably been 
at fault, but Clif was pretty certain that to-day’s les¬ 
son would cure him of taking blind corners at high 
speed. After he had paid for “Poppy’s” store, and 
for reckless driving, and for repairs to his car, he 
would be, Clif concluded, both a poorer and a wiser 
man. Thought of “Poppy’s” emporium recalled to 
mind the fact that he was returning to school minus 
the object of his expedition, the Sunday paper, and 
when, just then, he discovered that what he had sought 
lay spread across Loring Deane’s knees, on top of the 
ever-present dark plaid robe, he chuckled. 

“I guess you’ll have to lend me your paper, Deane, 
when you’re through with it,” he said. “That’s what 
I went to the village for, but ‘Poppy’s’ stock was pretty 
well shop-worn by the time I got there!” 

“I’d like you to read it first,” answered Loring. “In 

125 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


fact, I don't care if I don’t see it at all. I get it more 
for Wattles than myself.” 

“Oh, no, thanks, but I would like to see it when 
you’ve finished. There won’t be much chance for 
papers, anyway, before dinner, for it’s pretty close 
to church time now.” 

“Well, but I’d rather you took it first,” Loring in¬ 
sisted. “You know—you know, Bingham, you saved 
my life, I guess.” 

“Rot! You’d have made it all right even if I 
hadn’t butted in. Well—” and this was to switch the 
conversation from so embarrassing a subject—“I’ll 
take it first, if you’re sure you won’t mind. I’ll give 
it back to you this afternoon. You’re in that room of 
Mr. Clendenin’s, aren’t you, on the first corridor in 
East?” 

“Yes, between his office and the game room. Doctor 
Wyndham let me have it because it’s rather hard to 
get up and down the stairs so often. By the way, 
Wattles, you’d better see about a new chair the first 
thing in the morning.” 

Wattles, walking slightly in the rear, had, it ap¬ 
peared, already given thought to the subject. “I think, 
Mister Loring, we can rent a chair temporarily while 
this is being repaired. I understand there’s a very 
capable cabinet maker in the town, sir.” 

“All right,” laughed Loring, “but seems to me what 
we need is a carriage maker, Wattles. Anyhow, you 
see what you can do. We may have to telegraph to 
New York, you know.” 


126 




CLIF GOES FOR A PAPER 


Clif yielded the chair to Wattles at the West Hall 
entrance, and, much to his confusion, since a half- 
dozen fellows were looking on over the tops of their 
papers, Loring held his hand out. Clif took it, un¬ 
comfortably aware of the curious stares of the audi¬ 
ence, and discovered that Loring Deane, whatever his 
physical disabilities might be, had plenty of strength 
in his fingers. Loring smiled, but rather gravely, 
and “Thanks, Bingham,” he said simply. 

“Shucks, that’s all right,” said Clif hastily, and 
got his hand back feeling rather as if it had been just 
drawn from a vise. “I don’t believe I helped much. 
Well, see you later. I’ll bring this back by three, 
sure.” 

“Keep it as long as you want,” answered Loring. 
“Don’t return it at all unless you want to, although I 
hope you will because I’d like to have a visit from 
you.” 

“Why, I—sure, I’ll be around.” 

Wattles pushed the chair on toward East Hall, and 
Clif, swinging the paper ostentatiously, picked his 
way up the steps, nodding here and there, certain that 
as soon as he was beyond hearing the group would 
join in an effort to find an explanation of that cere¬ 
monious hand shake. Going to his room Clif wished 
impatiently that Deane hadn’t staged that silly scene 
out there. There’d be all sorts of crazy stories around 
the Hall as a result. School was a gossipy hole, any¬ 
way. But by the time he had triumphantly tossed 
the paper into Walter’s lap he had become more len- 
127 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


ient. After all, he had helped Deane out of a pretty- 
awkward situation, even if he hadn’t actually saved 
the chap’s life, as the silly ass insisted he had, and it 
was only natural that Deane should have wanted to 
show some gratitude. And the beggar had kept pretty 
steady, too, with that car bearing down on him like 
a—a Jug a Jug—” 

“Say, Walt, what’s that thing the Indian guys used 
to haul around so’s folks could throw themselves under 
the wheels? You know; Jug o’ nuts, or something.” 

“Juggernaut? That what you mean?” 

“Yes, Juggernaut. I couldn’t think of it. Throw 
me the football section, will you?” 




CHAPTER XI 
TOM IS BORED 


C LIF didn’t include his part in the action when 
telling Tom of the automobile accident. He 
had merely encountered Loring Deane in the 
village and returned to the school with him. Tom was 
inclined to be hurt because Clif hadn’t asked him to 
go to the village, too. “Best accident of the season* 
and I miss it,” he mourned, returning from church. 
“Just my luck!” After dinner he suggested a walk, 
but when Clif explained that he had borrowed Deane’s 
paper, and must return it to him soon, he consented 
to sit on the steps in the sunshine, and peruse the comic 
section while Clif dug into the football news. It was 
after half-past three when the latter had exhausted the 
paper and, folding it neatly, declared his intention of 
restoring it to its owner. But when he bade Tom 
go with him, Tom refused. 

“I’ll wait here,” said Tom. “I’m not feeling up to 
meeting your swell friends just now.” 

“But I can’t just shove the paper at him and run,” 
protested Clif. “I’ll have to stay a few minutes, any¬ 
way.” 

“Why?” demanded Tom. 

Clif couldn’t explain satisfactorily without reveal¬ 
ing the details of the morning’s incident, and so he 
129 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


just said: “Gee, a fellow’s got to be polite, Tom! I 
borrowed his paper, didn’t I ? Oh, come on with me, 
won’t you?” 

Tom shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing doing. 
Stay as long as you like. I’ll take a little walk. See 
you later, maybe.” 

“I’d do as much for you.” 

“You won’t have to. I’m not trying to break into 
the millionaire class.” 

i “Oh, thunder! You make me tired! Where’ll I 
find you in half an hour?” 

“I’ll be around,” answered Tom vaguely. “Maybe 
in the village. Or over at the golf course.” 

“Or up in the attic or down cellar,” added Clif 
sarcastically. “All right. See you at supper, any¬ 
way.” 

He knew very well that Tom was slightly jealous, 
but it couldn’t be helped, and he went across to East 
with the paper. Glancing back as he went up the 
steps, he saw Tom meandering carelessly down the 
driveway, hands in pockets, and head high. Clif 
grinned as he went on along the corridor. “Silly old 
ass, “he murmured affectionately. 

Save that the ceiling was considerably higher than 
in the upstairs rooms, Loring Deane’s quarters were 
not different from Clif’s at first glance. There were 
two beds, two chiffoniers, and the usual number and 
variety of chairs. What was missing, however, were 
the window-seats, for here the two big windows went 
almost to the floor. Then, too, there was a wash stand, 
130 




TOM IS BORED 


a feature lacking in the regular bedrooms. Loring was 
seated in an armchair close to one of the windows, and 
for once the almost inevitable rug was missing. Clif’s 
gaze fell instantly from the boy’s face to his legs. 
They looked like any other fellow’s, he thought in 
some surprise; and then he noticed that there was 
something just a little awkward in the way the feet 
were placed. Most fellows cross their legs when at 
ease, but Loring’s were not crossed, and the well- 
polished brown shoes rested flat on the rug rather as 
though they were somehow independent of the relaxed 
form in the chair. Loring saw Clif’s downward glance 
and rightly interpreted the expression of interest on 
the visitor’s countenance, but he only said: “Take the 
easy chair, Bingham. Wattles, shove it over here, 
will you? You needn’t have bothered about the paper. 
Are you quite through with it?” 

“Yes, thanks.” Clif was resolutely keeping his eyes 
away from his host. “You look pretty comfortable 
here, Deane.” 

“Yes, the room is really very nice. We could do 
with a little more space, but we’re not suffering. Help 
yourself to the paper, Wattles. Wattles, you see, Bing¬ 
ham, is always restless until he gets the paper and 
learns the football scores.” 

“Really?” Clif looked across at the man with some 
surprise. “So you’re a football bug—er-<—Wattles.” 

“Oh, it isn’t our game he’s interested in,” Loring 
laughed. “What he wants to read is that the Stoke 
I3i 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Pogis Hotspurs won from the Lancashire Argonauts 
or the Welsh Terriers beat the Bermin’am Brindles.” 

“Oh, I see,” said Clif. “Over in England, eh?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Wattles gravely. “It’s the game 
I know best, Mr. Bingham.” 

“Don’t you like our game?” 

“Oh, yes, sir, it’s most interesting, but I don’t un¬ 
derstand it so very well yet. It seems just a bit con¬ 
fusing to the—the layman, sir.” 

Loring chuckled, and Clif, smiling, said: “Oh, but 
you’ll soon get the hang of it, Wattles, and be cheer¬ 
ing your head off for us.” 

“Very likely, sir, and I’m sure I hope you will be 
successful, Mr. Bingham. I have been giving a great 
deal of attention and study to the game, but—” and 
here Wattles smiled reproachfully-—“Mister Loring 
isn’t much help, sir.” 

Clif looked inquiringly at Loring. Loring was in¬ 
stantly indignant. “Why, how you talk, Wattles! 
I’ve explained and explained to you, you thankless 
beggar!” 

Wattles’s discreet smile appeared again. “Yes, Mis¬ 
ter Loring, you have, but recently when I asked you 
why one of the young gentlemen stayed so far away 
from the scrum—” 

“Scrimmage, Wattles.” 

“Yes, sir, scrimmage. Well, sir, you said he was an 
extra man and wasn’t allowed to take part until one of 
the others was injured, but I observed that very shortly 
afterwards he tackled the young gentleman who was 
I3 2 




TOM IS BORED 


running with the ball, and I knew you were just having 
your joke, sir.” 

Clif had to laugh when Loring did, although he tried 
not to for fear of wounding Wattles’s feelings. “Oh, 
well/’ said Loring, “I was kidding you that time, Wat¬ 
tles, but usually you may rely implicitly on what I tell 
you.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Wattles, dryly but respectfully, 
“but I can’t always say when you’re spoofin’—I should 
say kidding, sir!” 

The two boys exchanged amused glances as Wattles 
retired to the other side of the room with the paper. 
There was a low table near Loring’s chair, and on it, 
amongst other things, was a folding chess-board and 
an oblong box. Clif nodded toward it. “That’s a 
chess-board, isn’t it? You ought to get Tom Kemble 
to give you a game. He’s rather a shark at chess.” 

“Then you’re not? Kemble’s the fellow I see you 
with so often, isn’t he ?” 

“Yes. Tom says I haven’t enough brains for chess. 
Maybe that’s it. Anyhow, I’m absolutely punk.” 

“I’d like to play with you some time,” said Loring. 
“Wattles is getting so he can beat me now, and I don’t 
care about being licked every time. It’s too monot¬ 
onous. How are you at checkers?” 

“Oh, I play a little, but I’m not much better than 
at chess. I can’t get interested enough, I guess.” 

“Football’s your one and only love, then,” smiled 
Loring. 


133 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


'‘Well, I do like football, but I play baseball, too. 
You’re something of a football fan yourself, I guess. 
I see you around most every afternoon.” 

“Yes, I am. I like to watch. And”—Loring smiled 
faint apology—“I like to imagine myself playing, 
Bingham. I like to make believe that if I had a good 
pair of legs I’d be a wonderful football player. It’s 
rather fun sometimes, pretending.” 

Clif refrained from looking at the other’s legs with 
difficulty and stammered: “Yes, it is. And—and I 
dare say you’d be pretty good, too, if you—if you 
could.” 

“Thanks,” laughed Loring. “You’re a gentleman, 
Bingham! I’ve said the same thing to Wattles a dozen 
times and the best I’ve ever got from him was, ‘Oh, 
very likely, sir.’ ” There was a protesting sniff from 
across the room. “Anyway, Bingham, I know foot¬ 
ball, even if I can’t play it. I’ve got about every book 
that’s ever been written on it.’’ He nodded toward a 
bookcase behind Clif and the latter turned and looked. 
Loring had not exaggerated. There was nearly a shelf 
of them. 

“Gee!” muttered Clif. “I didn’t know there were 
half that many iit the >vorld. I’ve never read one of 
them!” 

“You don’t need to. You get your knowledge first¬ 
hand.” 

“Are they—interesting?” asked Clif. 

“They are to me. I dare say it sounds conceited, but 
it’s really a fact that I know more football than most 
134 





TOM IS BORED 


of those fellows on the First Team. I see that by- 
watching them. More than half the time they do things 
without knowing why. One of those chaps there’’— 
Loring nodded again toward the bookcase—“says that 
he doesn’t want the men he is coaching to know too 
much football; that he’d rather teach each one only 
what he can use in playing his position. He may be 
right, but I don’t think so. I don’t believe a thorough 
knowledge of the game is going to hurt any player. 
Of course the best way to get that knowledge is by 
experience, by starting as a little chap and learning as 
you go along; but lots of fellows never learn more 
than enough to hold down their positions by the skin 
of their teeth. If I was a coach I’d make my men read 
and study one of those books until they really knew 
what it was all about!” 

“Gee, that’s an idea,” said Clif. 

Loring laughed. “I can tell by the way you say that 
that you think I’m a perfect nut, Bingham. It does 
sound cheeky for a chap who can’t take a step without 
being held up to tell a real player—” 

“I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort,” protested 
Clif warmly. “I think it’s rather wonderful you’re so 
—so clever about it. I should think not being able to 
play would sort of—sort of sour you on football. I 
say, why don’t you coach one of the class teams? 
Couldn’t you do it?” 

“From a wheel chair? I’m afraid not. Anyhow, I 
dare say my knowledge of football isn’t more than half 
practical. It’s just ‘book learning,’ Bingham. I get a 
135 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


good deal of fun out of it, though.” Loring chuckled. 
‘Tm an absolute nut about plays. Making them up, I 
mean. I’ve got—” He broke off to address Wattles. 
'‘Get me that portfolio, will you, Wattles? The one 
with the football diagrams in it. That’s it. Thanks. 
Have a look, Bingham. There’s where a lot of my 
time has gone. If you laugh I’ll throw the chessmen 
at you!” 

The portfolio was slightly larger than the sheet after 
sheet of letter-size bond paper inside and was closed 
with three knotted tapes. Each sheet held a diagram, 
sometimes two, and accompanying text, and Clif, turn¬ 
ing over one after another, marveled at the neatness of 
the penned figures and lines and letters. Loring had 
used two colors of India ink in each case, showing the 
attacking team in black circles and the defending side 
in red. Straight lines were straight and curved lines 
were firm and graceful. The letters and figures were 
remarkable, and for a moment Clif thought that Loring 
was hoaxing him, that he was looking at printed di¬ 
agrams. “Tandem Outside Guard,” he read. “For¬ 
ward-Pass from Reverse Play (8),” “Forward-Pass 
from End Run Threat,” “Delayed Pass from Kick 
Formation.” 

Clif looked across at Loring admiringly. 

“Say, but these are corking! Do you think—I 
mean—” 

“Will they go? Yes, I know they will. Of course 
a lot of them aren’t new. I mean by that, Bingham, 
they were new to me when I doped them out, but of 
136 




TOM IS BORED 


course other fellows had thought of the same thing, 
or something like it. You can’t invent a new football 
play very often; a radically new one, I mean. The best 
you can do is work out some better way of making 
an old one. Now and then, though, they change the 
rules a bit and you get a new line of thought. This 
year the forward-pass offers a chap the best chance 
for hitting on new stuff. There’s one play there—just 
let me see it a minute, will you? Yes, here it is. I’d 
like to see that tried some time. It’s a fake run around 
the short side with the ball going from fullback to end, 
who has come around behind, and then on a forward- 
pass over the long side to the other end. And here’s 
another one that I really think could be worked nicely 
under the proper conditions.” 

Clif had pulled his chair beside Loring’s. His praise 
of the diagrams had been genuine, but his admiration 
was rather for the skill shown in their drawing than 
for their practical value, for the science of football 
strategy had never engaged his interest. Loring 
turned the sheets forward until he came to the one 
he sought. “Now, this, you see, is a scoring play, 
pure and simple. It depends first of all on a quarter¬ 
back who can carry the ball and is fast.” 

Clif nodded, leaning over to stare fascinatedly at the 
red and black circles and squares, the straight lines and 
curved lines and dotted lines, the letters and figures 
and arrow-heads. He was beginning at last to translate 
the symbols into panting, crouching players and fol¬ 
low in imagination the flight of the ball along its wavy 
137 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


path. “It’s a quarterback run, isn’t it?” he asked 
eagerly. 

“Yes,” said Loring. “But the 'kick’ in this play, 
Bingham, depends on keeping the ball hidden. Now, 
say we’re on the fifteen-yard line—” 

In the village at that moment Tom emerged from 
Burger’s drug store after his second glass of orange- 
squiz. He hadn’t particularly wanted that second drink. 
He hadn’t, for that matter, particularly wanted the 
first, but a fellow had to do something. He looked 
again along the almost empty sidewalk in the direction 
of the school, but Clif still failed to materialize. Tom 
scowled, dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his 
trousers, rattled some loose silver and pennies and 
turned for the fourth time to a bored survey of the left- 
hand window. Six dozen wrapped bottles of “Buck¬ 
ingham’s Liquid Elixir, the Century’s Greatest Sci¬ 
entific Discovery” made a pinkly geometrical display 
in the background, while in the foreground numerous 
boxes, alternately covered and uncovered, of “Tanne- 
baum’s Oil of Amber Soap” added a harmonizing tone 
of pale yellow. Tom scowled harder than ever and 
turned toward the more varied offer of the second 
window. But even this soon palled on fourth ac¬ 
quaintance, and finally he gave it up and set his steps 
toward school, murmuring a dejected “Heck!” as he 
set forth. 


138 




CHAPTER XII 
DEFEAT 


M ONDAY was an easy day for both First 
Team and Scrub, but on Tuesday the hard 
grind began again. “Cocky” never let a 
session go by without trotting his squad over to the 
tackling dummy, and Clif, for one, had grown to hate 
that limp and headless object with an almost passionate 
intensity. Perhaps this was largely because his tackling 
was not of the best and didn’t seem to improve with 
practice. Mr. Babcock frequently told him that he 
would never become a really good end until he could 
make his tackles surer. Secretly, though, Clif con¬ 
sidered that he did as well as Jeff Adams, who had 
asserted his right to the left end position, and a heap 
better than a lot of the others. He wished he might 
convince Mr. Babcock of it! 

The field was a busy place now, for the third grid¬ 
iron was in use by the class teams, and from around 
the comer of East Hall floated frantic shouts and com¬ 
manding bellows and the thud of booted balls. Prac¬ 
tice over there was intensive, for, since there were four 
squads and but one gridiron, they worked two teams 
at a time, limiting that time to an hour. 

On Monday the Scrub was enlarged by the addition 
of Joe Craigie, a guard candidate released by Coach 
139 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Otis. The First was getting its stride now, and most 
of the positions were settled on. The impression that 
this was to be another winning year was gaining ground 
daily, for the team was ahead of the season in develop¬ 
ment and coming steadily. Mr. Otis, switching from 
last year tactics, was building his attack around Fargo. 
Last season, playing very modern football indeed, 
Wyndham had been beaten; although the defeat was 
attributable to the renowned Grosfawk rather than 
to Wyndham’s offense. A coach must build his game 
about his material, and “G. G.’s” principal assets this 
year were a powerful fullback who was seldom stopped 
without some gain and a flashy halfback, Jensen, who 
had a positive genius for finding fissures in the enemy 
line and making chasms of them. So, while the pass¬ 
ing and running games were not neglected, it was the 
old, reliable line-bucking style of play that the Head 
Coach was teaching the First. And this meant that 
the Scrub had to stand some tough onslaughts those 
days. It was lucky for the Second that its line held 
such weighty, non-breakable veterans as Clem Henning 
and “Babe” and “Wink” and A1 Greene and Jimmy 
Ames, for a lighter or less experienced lot of forwards 
would never have stood the strain. When “Big Bill” 
Fargo smashed in, you knew without being told or 
reading about it that something had happened! 

Mr. Otis had sought to provide a strong, heavy 
line, sacrificing something of speed in the effort, and 
Raiford and Higgs and Quinlan, early season proba¬ 
bilities, had been put aside in favor of sturdier men. 

140 




DEFEAT 


Billy Desmond seemed sure of right guard position, 
Carlson was in center in place of Higgs, and Weldon 
had ousted Raiford at right tackle. It was only at 
the end positions that “G. G.” placed speed above brawn, 
and Archer and Drayton were first choices there. 
Stoddard still had a perceptible edge on Houston at 
quarter, while Whitemill and Sproule were fighting for 
left half back’s place. 

On Thursday the Scrub was instructed to use one 
forward-pass in every three plays in order that the 
First might work up a better defense before meeting 
Horner Academy on Saturday. Clif, who had shown 
fair ability as a receiver of thrown balls, came through 
with only an ensanguined nose, a strained wrist and 
a few minor abrasions, and considered himself lucky. 
He accused Tom of trying to kill him off by putting 
him into almost every forward-pass, but he was really 
very much tickled. One of the passes gave Clif a 
seventeen-yard run and led to the only score made by 
the Scrub that week. But most of the attempts to gain 
by the aerial route failed, for Coach Otis had worked 
out a very satisfactory defense and it was difficult for 
Tom and Sim to find an eligible and uncovered man to 
throw to. Although the Scrub was given the ball many 
times when she hadn’t earned it, the First held it some 
of the time and didn’t have very much trouble in mak¬ 
ing two touchdowns and a like number of field-goals. 
Friday saw another hard session and then, on Satur¬ 
day, Nemesis in the shape of some twenty-five husky 
youths with blue-and-brown-striped stockings came 
141 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


along and upset calculations horribly. Homer came 
from a long way off, but a hard railway journey had 
not hurt them a bit, it seemed. 

Wyndham scored first, in the second quarter, when, 
held firmly on Horner’s nineteen yards, Stoddard 
kicked a goal from the twenty-eight. But that was 
the last of such performances, for after that the game 
was all Homer. The Blue-and-Brown took the ball 
on its forty-two when the third quarter arrived and 
rushed it straight down to Wyndham’s twenty-six, 
using off-tackle and round the end plays varied with 
one forward-pass that was good for eight yards. 
Wyndham held for two downs and then succumbed 
before a tricky play that should have been either a kick 
or a pass and was a quick quarterback plunge at center 
that landed the ball just short of the required distance. 
A wedge on the left of the dark blue line made it first 
down, and from the fifteen Horner took the ball over 
in six plays, battering at Desmond and Weldon until 
the right of the Wyndham line finally crumpled and 
the last charge yielded four long yards and a touch¬ 
down. 

“G. G.” replaced Desmond with Smythe and, still 
later, sent half a dozen other substitutes dribbling in. 
But Horner couldn’t be seriously dented between 
tackles, and although, as a final desperate enterprise, 
“G. G.” sent Sproule in for Whitemill with instruc¬ 
tions to round the ends, Wyndham came no nearer an¬ 
other score than the enemy’s thirty-two yards, from 
where, well along in the fourth quarter, “Big Bill” 
142 



DEFEAT 


made a desperate and well-nigh hopeless try for a goal 
from placement. The ball came down near the five- 
yard line. Horner was still not through, and in the 
last six minutes of the twelve-minute period, she added 
insult to injury by plowing her way from midfield, 
where she had taken a short punt, to the seventeen 
yards and, when stubbornly held there, shooting a for¬ 
ward toss over the middle of the line for another 
score. As a doughty fullback kicked an easy goal 
after each touchdown the final humiliating score was 
14 to 3. 

Well, a team can’t always win, and Wyndham had 
feared Horner beforehand. Unfortunately, though, 
she hadn’t feared her enough. Wyndham’s defense 
against the forward-pass, which had worked nicely 
when opposed to her Scrub, had failed badly. Horner 
had tried the air three times and each time had suc¬ 
ceeded. Her style of passing was, however, different 
from the Scrub’s, and the First had failed to solve it. 
Evidently, then, there was still much to be learned as 
to protection against the passing game. Even Coach 
Otis’s big line of forwards hadn’t gained much glory. 
More than one Horner plunge had torn it wide apart, 
while the enemy’s persistent attack on Desmond and 
Weldon had shown conclusively that the right side 
needed something at present lacking. Wyndham’s ends 
had been boxed time after time, and even “Big Bill,” 
the pride and boast of the School, had fallen down 
badly on the defense. Altogether, then, the coaches 
had much to ruminate on that Saturday evening. Es- 
143 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


pecially as Horner Academy then rated about 60 to 
Wolcott’s ioo! 

But other things besides football games and prac- 
ticings occurred during that week preceding Wynd- 
ham’s first defeat. For instance, there was a stupen¬ 
dous chess combat between Loring and Tom. That 
took place on Wednesday evening. Clif had almost 
despaired of inducing Tom to visit Loring. Tom 
was studiedly indifferent on Sunday and Monday, 
agreeing with his chum that it was extremely likely 
that Loring Deane could beat him at chess. Tom stated 
humbly that he really wasn’t much of a player. Clif 
contradicted the assertion indignantly, almost spoiling 
his conspiracy by declaring that maybe Tom could lick 
Loring after all. On Tuesday, having recovered from 
an attack of jealousy, Tom said that a fellow who 
didn’t have much else to do but play chess ought to be 
pretty good at it. On Wednesday he capitulated and 
followed Clif over to East Hall when supper was 
over. No one could well help being attracted to 
Loring, and Tom forgot his prejudice instantly. Soon 
they were seated with the chess-board between them 
and the game was on. Clif watched, at first with in¬ 
terest, then, as time passed, merely for want of other 
occupation. Wattles was not present. After serving 
Loring’s supper—Loring had all his meals in his room 
—he was free until half-past nine, at which time he re¬ 
turned to get the boy to bed. Sometimes Wattles 
went to the village and attended the moving pictures, 
but more frequently he was to be found in the library 

144 




DEFEAT 


or reading room in West Hall. Clif wished he were 
present. Talking to Wattles would be far more amus¬ 
ing than watching the interminable game. 

When, finally, Loring won, Clif got the impression 
that the host would have preferred to lose. Loring 
was almost apologetic and found numerous excuses for 
Tom. Tom, however, was a good loser, and he re¬ 
fused to take refuge behind the excuses. “Heck/’ he 
said, “you just played better chess, Deane. Where 
I made my mistake—” 

And then they played the whole thing all over again, 
and had scarcely more than finished when the gong 
warned of study hour! 

The next evening Tom hurried through his supper 
and was almost impatient with Clif because the latter, 
in spite of many honorable wounds received in battle 
that afternoon, was hungry and insisted on satsifying 
his appetite. When they got to Loring’s room that 
youth was still eating, and Tom had to wait a good 
ten minutes while Loring finished and Wattles removed 
the tray and the small table was placed close to Loring’s 
chair. Then another battle began, and Clif selected 
one of the books on football and fairly turned his back 
on the game. This time, though, the contest was soon 
over, for Loring made a fatal mistake soon after the 
start. As there was scarcely time for another, the 
chessmen were put away, Clif returned the book he had 
been reading to the shelf and they talked. Presently 
Tom asked to see the collection of football diagrams 
of which Clif had told him and the rest of the time was 
145 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


spent in discussing them. Tom was loud in his praise 
of them, but he thought some of them not workable, 
and that led to a three-cornered discussion during which 
the chess-board was again produced and several plays 
were rehearsed. Tom proved his contention with re¬ 
gard to one of them and Loring cheerfully crumpled 
a sheet of paper up and tossed it into the waste-basket. 
Going back to West, Tom confided to his companion 
that Loring Deane knew a lot of football and that it 
was a plaguey shame he couldn’t get out and play like 
other fellows. 

By the last of that week going over to Loring’s after 
supper had become a habit with Clif and Tom, and by 
Saturday evening the intimacy had reached the point 
where the chums were calling Loring by his first name 
and Loring was saying “Tom” and “Clif” quite nat¬ 
urally. Discussion of the First Team’s defeat by 
Horner delayed the chess game that evening, to Clif’s 
delight, and the subject was well thrashed out between 
them before the board was set out on the little table. 
In an argument between Tom and Loring on the sub¬ 
ject of Stoddard’s choice of plays, Loring, in Clif’s 
opinion, won conclusively. 

“Well, maybe he made mistakes,’* Tom conceded at 
last, “but he’s better than Houston, isn’t he ?” 

“I think so,” answered Loring, “but neither of them 
is my idea of a corking quarter. But then, I’m not 
keen on their style, anyway.” 

“How do you mean, Loring?” Clif asked. 

“I mean that if I were a football coach I wouldn’t 
146 



DEFEAT 


ask my quarterback to carry the ball much. Foot¬ 
ball’s a lot like war, Clif. The coach is the commander- 
in-chief who lays out the plan of the battle. The 
quarterback is the general who carries out his orders. 
But the coach can’t plan in detail because there’s no 
way to know beforehand what situations will arise. 
That’s where the quarter is called on for generalship. 
There’s no chance to confer with the coach. He’s got 
to size up each situation as it arrives and decide what 
to do. It’s up to him to move his forces so as to win. 
I’ve never played quarterback, but I think I know 
pretty well what a quarter’s up against. He’s got to 
consider a lot of things, such as the situation of the 
ball in regard to the goals and the side lines, the num¬ 
ber of the down, the distance to be gained, the strength 
and weakness of the enemy, the ability and condition 
of his backs, a dozen more things. And he’s got to 
reach a decision in mighty short time usually. Well, 
now I think all that’s quite enough to saddle one fellow 
with when his side is on the offensive. He’s got enough 
to do without being called on to carry the ball, and if 
he was my quarter he wouldn’t be asked to get into 
the interference too often. If he could run the team 
I wouldn’t care whether he ever gained a foot of ground 
himself. Just knowing what plays to call and calling 
them correctly and keeping his team fighting every 
minute—why, I’d forgive him even if he wasn’t a won¬ 
der on defense. He could fumble a punt now and then 
and I’d still call him a corking quarter!” 

“Yes, that’s so,” said Tom. “Still, lots of fellows 
147 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


can run the team and carry the ball, too. Some of the 
finest quarterbacks have been all-around men. ,, 

“I know, but they aren’t so numerous, Tom. The 
average fellow, especially if he is prep school age, can’t 
do a lot of things at once and do them all well. Any 
quarter, I don’t care who he is, will be of more value 
to his team if he just has to run it and isn’t expected 
to carry the ball himself.” 

‘‘Well, I don’t know,” said Tom doubtfully. “If 
he’s a cracker-jack runner and hard to stop—’’ 

“Make him a halfback then and find another quar¬ 
ter,” said Loring. 

“Yes, but he might have ability to run the team, 
too,” objected Tom. “No, I don’t believe I agree with 
you, Loring. I’ve seen some mighty good quarters 
who could do both things.” 

“I’m not saying there haven’t been some or won’t 
be more,” replied Loring pleasantly. “But they’re the 
exceptions. A fellow only has one brain and it will 
hold only so much. When he tries to get too much into 
it he crowds it. If he has too much on his mind he’s 
bound to trip up now and then, and now and then is 
far too often. To-day Stoddard wouldn’t have made 
three or four glaring mistakes in judgment if he’d had 
only the running of the team to think about. I’ve 
never played the game, Tom, but you can’t make me 
believe that a fellow, the average fellow, anyhow, can 
take the ball, run thirty yards with it, dodging three 
or four tackiers, be thrown hard and sat on and then 
148 




DEFEAT 


get up with a clear head and know almost instantly what 
the next play ought to be!” 

“He surely can’t,” agreed Clif. “I think you’re dead 
right, Loring.” 

“Heck, might as well let the quarter sit on the bench 
alongside the coach, then,” grumbled Tom. “Nothing 
to do but call his signals!’’ 

“Why not do away with the quarter entirely?” asked 
Loring, laughing. “Let the coach run the team from 
the side-line by radio!” 

“Fine,” applauded Clif. “Then, if he lost his game, 
he could blame it on static!” 

“Well, we’ve got a quarter who knows both branches 
of his trade pretty well,” said Clif. “Sim’s a mighty 
fine player, I think.” 

“That’s Jackson?” asked Loring. “He’s the dark¬ 
haired chap, isn’t he? Well, have you ever noticed 
*how seldom he takes the ball himself?” 

Tom blinked. “I guess we haven’t got many plays 
for quarterback,” he answered. Then he caught an 
amused twinkle in Loring’s eyes. “Oh, come on and 
let’s play,” he laughed. 




CHAPTER XIII 
THE CONSULTING COACH 


C LIF’S father was to have visited him Sunday, 
but the morning brought a telegram stating 
that a sudden journey to Boston necessitated 
a postponement of the Freeburg trip to the following 
Sunday. Clif’s disappointment was not lasting. In 
the afternoon he and Tom and Loring went for a walk. 
That is, he and Tom walked and took turns pushing 
Loring’s chair, long since mended by the local car¬ 
penter. Wattles was left behind, delighted by the 
prospect of two hours of browsing in the school library 
but uneasy at intrusting his charge to the two boys. 

The day was fair and, for the latter part of October 
in that region, quite warm. Along Oak Street many 
of the residents were on their porches, and the sight 
of the boy in the wheel chair created much interest 
and curiosity. Clif was conscious of the craning necks 
and low-voiced comments, but Loring seemed not to 
be aware of them. Perhaps, Clif thought, you got used 
to that sort of thing after a while. They went through 
the village and then westward and came to a halt at 
last beside the little river where the end of the old 
covered bridge offered a sheltered, sunny nook. Clif 
and Tom climbed to the top of a fence. Loring, sup- 

150 


THE CONSULTING COACH 


plied with a willow wand at his request, trimmed it 
with his knife and whittled contentedly while conver¬ 
sation roamed from one subject to another. They 
were on a little-traveled road and the only vehicle to 
rattle across the bridge during their sojourn was an 
old buggy drawn by a fat gray horse and occupied by 
a roly-poly old man who gave them a cheerful “After¬ 
noon, boys,” and painstakingly forbore to stare at 
Loring. Loring’s gaze followed the retreating figure 
and he smiled. 

“He wanted so much to take a good look, too,” said 
Loring. “Nice old codger. I almost wanted to tell 
him I didn’t mind.” 

“I guess you’re pretty used to it,” Tom mused. 
“Say, how long have you been this way? 

Clif looked startled, but Loring only smiled as he 
answered: “Sixteen years and seven months, Tom.” 

“Six—you mean always?” 

“Ever since I was bom.’’ 

“Gosh! Can’t they do anything? What’s it like?” 

Clif thought the questions in rather poor taste and 
looked apologetic on his friend’s behalf, but Loring 
didn’t appear to mind. “They haven’t done much 
yet,” he answered. “I’ve been treated by a lot of doc¬ 
tors, here and abroad, but nothing much has come of 
it. My leg bones don’t pick out the right food to 
grow on, it seems. They’re too fond of lime. Cal¬ 
cification the doctors call it. That and a lot of other 
things. Usually each one has his own pet name for 
it. Anyway, there’s too much chalk in those bones 
151 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


down there, and if I ever got mad with you, Tom, and 
kicked you, you’d have the laugh on me because I’d 
break my leg. They’re so brittle they’re no use at all 
as legs. Sometimes I think it would be better to get 
rid of them and save the price of shoes and stockings, 
but no one else seems to. The doctor father is sup¬ 
porting now makes believe I’ll be able to use the silly 
things some day; says that as I get older the bone 
structure will get more sense. I don’t know, though.” 

“But don’t you do anything for it?” asked Clif. 

“Oh, yes, I’m on a funny diet, for one thing. You’d 
be surprised, fellows, to know what perfectly innocent 
looking things contain lime! And this doctor’s work¬ 
ing on the theory that if I don’t give the bones enough 
lime to suit them they’ll get discouraged and use some¬ 
thing else. Then poor old Wattles has to take me to 
walk every morning and night.’’ 

“Take you to walk!” exclaimed Tom incredulously. 

“That’s what he calls it,” laughed Loring. “We’re 
doing an eighth of a mile now twice a day; a two^ 
twenty-yard dash, you know! You see, they won’t 
let me use my legs myself, so Wattles does it for me. 
He massages the pesky things and works all the joints 
—as carefully as if they were made of glass—and has 
a jolly good time of it. Wattles is really a brick. He 
had to put in a week or more at the hospital and take 
a course of instruction before he could get the job, and 
I believe he honestly thinks now that he’s an authority 
on bone diseases. He’s a conscientious chap, too, and 

152 




THE CONSULTING COACH 


if the house caught on fire while he was ‘exercising’ 
me I’ll bet he wouldn’t get out until I’d had my full 
thirty minutes!” 

“But couldn’t you use crutches?” asked Tom. 

“Yes, but they won’t let me do it. Too much chance 
of an accident, they say. I’m not even allowed to cross 
my legs! Not that I’m at all sure I could do it, for 
it’s so long since I tried that I honestly believe I’ve 
forgotten how.” He turned to smile at Clif. “That 
was a pretty close call the other day, you know. I 
dare say that if that car had dumped me out of the 
chair Wattles would have had to sweep my legs up 
into a dustpan!” 

“What was that?” demanded Tom. “I didn’t hear 
about it.” 

“Didn’t Clif tell you?’’ asked Loring. Then he 
laughed. “Sorry, Clif. I thought he knew.” 

“He does know. That is, I told him all he needed 
to know,” muttered Clif. 

“You never did! Whatever it is, you didn . say a 
word about it.” 

“Didn’t I tell you about meeting Loring in the vil¬ 
lage last Sunday? Well, then!” 

“Sure, but you didn’t say anything about Loring 
being dumped out of his chair!” 

“He wasn’t dumped out of his chair. All that hap¬ 
pened—” 

“Better let me tell it,” said Loring. 

“Go ahead,” answered Clif. “There’s nothing to 
tell, anyway. You were coming across the street—” 
153 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Shut up!” Tom commanded sternly. “No one 
wants to hear from you. Go ahead, Lor mg.” 

So Loring went ahead and gave a perfectly truthful 
and not at all sensational account of the affair, and 
Tom viewed Clif accusingly during the narrative and, 
when it was finished, exclaimed disgustedly: “Of all 
the tight mouthed, secretive vipers! Loring, I’ve 
watched over that guy ever since he came here. I was 
the first one to befriend him. Without me, he—he 
wouldn’t be anywhere to-day. And look at the way 
he repays me! Goes out and makes a silly hero of 
himself saving people from being trampled underfoot 
by rampageous automobiles and never says a word 
about it! And he calls that friendship, I suppose!” 

“You make me tired, both of you/’ grumbled Clif. 
“There wasn’t much danger, anyway, and all I did 
was give a yank to the chair. The fellow in the car 
would have missed him even if I hadn’t touched it. 
And if you go and tell this to any one else, Tom, I’ll 
make you wish you hadn’t!” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Tom good-naturedly. “You 
might have known I wouldn’t spill it, Clif. Next time 
you come right home, like a good little boy, and tell 
daddy all about it.” 

“There won’t be any next time,” answered Clif em¬ 
phatically. 

“Not with me,’’ chuckled Loring. “Wattles will 
never give me another chance to congest traffic. The 
poor chap had nightmare so badly that night that I 
had to wake him up twice!” 

154 




THE CONSULTING COACH 


“It’s a wonder he let you go without him to-day,” 
marveled Clif. 

“I was surprised myself,” agreed Loring. “I more 
than half expected to find him tagging along behind, 
keeping a watchful eye on me. You don’t happen to 
see a black derby sticking up behind a bush anywhere, 
do you?” 

Going back, Tom, trundling the chair, broke a silence 
of several minutes with: “Look here, Loring, I wish 
you’d do something for me. I mean for us, for the 
Scrub Team.” 

“I will if I can. What is it?’* 

“Well, you’ve been looking on at practice and scrim¬ 
mage almost every day, and you know a lot about foot¬ 
ball and how it ought to be played, and I’ve been think¬ 
ing that a fellow on the side-line sees a good deal that 
gets by those on the field.” 

“Well—” 

“Now what I’d like you to do is this. You watch 
how things go; watch the fellows play; size up the 
whole performance, you know, and then you tell me 
afterwards what’s wrong. Of course the Scrub’s just 
the Scrub, but I’m captain of it and I’d like to see the 
old outfit make a good showing. You’ve got some 
pretty good ideas about the game, Loring, and I guess 
if you sort of kept an eye on us and then we had a talk 
afterwards, why—” 

“That’s the most sensible remark you ever got off,” 
said Clif. “I call that a corking good idea!” 

“I’ll be glad to try,” said Loring. “I’d like to im- 
155 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


mensely, fellows, but, after all, my football’s just what 
you might call theory, and it seems rather cheeky for a 
chap who has never played a lick to—to set up as a 
critic!” 

“No, it doesn’t,” answered Tom firmly. “Critics 
are always like that. The good ones, I mean. I don’t 
have to be a baker to know when a pie is punk! You 
just watch us play, Loring, and see where we fall down. 
I’m not throwing off on 'Cocky.’ He’s a dandy coach. 
But he isn’t on the outside looking in, and he’s got a 
lot of stuff to think about all at once. Things might 
easily get by him—little things especially—just be¬ 
cause he’s right on top of the play. Then there’s 
strategy, too. There’s a whole lot in that, Loring, 
and you’ve sort of studied that end of it. So, if it 
wouldn’t be too much of a bother, I wish you’d help 
us out, Loring.” 

“Of course I will! Why, it’ll be a lot of fun for 
me, Tom. Almost like playing football myself!” 

“Done! Here, you push awhile, you lazy beggar!” 

“Lazy yourself,” answered Clif as he took the other’s 
place. “I should think, though, you’d be glad to keep 
the job, Tom. It isn’t every day you get the chance 
to be chauffeur to the consulting coach!” 

After they had consigned Loring to the care of a 
relieved Wattles and were returning to West, Clif 
said: “How did you happen to think of that scheme, 
Tom? I’ll bet he can give us some mighty good tips, 
eh?” 

“Oh, well*, it can’t do us any harm, I guess.” 

156 




THE CONSULTING COACH 


“Any harm?” 

Tom turned on his companion a look of mild per¬ 
plexity. “For goodness’ sake, Clif,” he replied, “you 
don’t suppose I really meant all that guff!” 

“What did you say it for, then?” asked Clif indig¬ 
nantly. 

“Because,” Tom answered equably, “I wanted to 
give the poor chap a little more interest in life. Didn’t 
you see how pleased he was ? Why, as he said, it will 
be almost like playing the game himself. I like that 
chap, old son, and I want to do anything I can to— 
to—” 

“Oh, you do? Then why try to make a fool of him ? 
Don’t you suppose he will find out quick enough that 
you don’t really want his advice ?” 

“No, why should he? And I haven’t said I didn’t 
want his advice. Of course I want it if it’s any good. 
I just don’t suppose it will be, that’s all. The big 
thing is to give him a better time here, don’t you see?” 

“Yes,” answered Clif dubiously, “but, just the same, 
it seems sort of mean to fool him, Tom.” 

“I’m not fooling him until he finds it out,” replied 
the other philosophically, “and he never will find it out 
unless you tell him.” 

“I’d be likely to,” jeered Clif. 

“Exactly. So that’s that. See you at supper, old 
timer.” 

Coach Otis made several shifts in the First Team on 
Monday and it was late when the Scrub was called over. 
During one fifteen-minute session the First scored two 
157 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


touchdowns, Whitemill making the first on a long run 
from midfield and Fargo going over for the second 
from the Scrub’s seven-yards. Tom’s team was on 
the defensive most of the time and, if truth must be 
told, played rather raggedly. On the First, Billy Des¬ 
mond was displaced by Quinlan, and Couch and 
Williams held the ends. The First, nettled by Sat¬ 
urday’s defeat, played savage ball. Jimmy Ames, in 
tackling Jensen soon after the trouble started, sus¬ 
tained a bad wrench of his left knee and was out for 
the day and for many more days to follow. Clem 
Henning retired early, too, after some zealous First 
Team man had put his knee into him, but Clem’s in¬ 
jury was only temporary. On the whole, the Scrub 
got pretty well battered up during that brief session, 
and minor injuries were numerous. 

That afternoon Loring watched the Scrub during its 
practice and then followed it across to the First Team 
field, and after supper, when Clif and Tom dropped in 
on him he was well primed with criticism. But the 
faults Loring had discovered were already known to 
coach and captain, and while Tom treated Loring’s 
disclosures with the utmost respect Clif knew quite 
well that he was not taking them seriously. Loring 
pointed out that several of the Scrub linemen were slow 
in starting, that “Wink” Coles played too high, that 
Stiles had a bad habit of slowing up before reaching 
the line and that Clif Bingham had missed two tackles! 
Loring also criticized Jackson for attempting a for- 
vyard-pass on fourth down on his own thirty-eight 

158 




THE CONSULTING COACH 


yards, which attempt resulted in an interception by 
the First and brought about the latter's second touch¬ 
down. Tom declared that he was glad to get the tips 
and that he would pass them on to “Cocky.’' 

“Of course some of it won’t be news to him, though. 
He’s been trying to speed up the forwards right along, 
for instance; and that stuff about Clif is old, too. He 
does miss too many tackles, and that’s no joke.” 

“I don’t see why, either,” Clif complained. “I try 
hard enough.” 

“I thought to-day that you tried too hard,” said 
Loring. “That time you tried for Whitemill, Clif, 
you weren’t near enough when you grabbed, and you 
got only one hand on him. It’s possible that you’re 
too anxious, isn’t it? Hadn’t you better try getting 
closer to your man before tackling?” 

“Maybe that’s it,” said Clif, glumly. “There’s 
something wrong. ‘Cocky’ has told me all along that 
I’m a punk tackier, and I guess I am.” 

“Oh, you’re not as bad as that,” said Tom. “There 
are others!” 

“Of course i didn’t think that I was telling you 
news,” said Loring. “You asked me to tell you what 
I saw, Tom, and that’s what I’ve done. I still say that 
it’s cheeky of me to set up as a football authority and 
critic, you know!” 

“I don’t see it,” Tom answered. “You certainly got 
the dope on us to-day, didn’t you? You keep up the 
good work, old son. Unless we do a heap better than 
we did to-day we’re going to need all the help we can 
get!” 


159 




CHAPTER XIV 
THE FIGHTING SCRUB 
UESDAY found the Fighting Scrub putting 



up a better defense, even though McMurtry, 


JL in Ames’s place, proved a weak point in the 
line. Later Joe Craigie, a substitute guard, ousted 
McMurtry and the left side of the Scrub line got back 
to normal. In the first period of the practice game 
“Big Bill” banged through for a touchdown and Stod¬ 
dard kicked the goal, while the best the Scrub could do 
was repeatedly kick out of danger. In the second go, 
however, with Fargo out of it and “Swede” Hanbury 
in his position, the Scrub not only held the enemy score¬ 
less but earned two points when Houston, at quarter, 
touched the ball down for a safety rather than have a 
touchdown scored. The Scrub put up a hard 
fight toward the end and Captain Tom had the ball 
on the adversary’s twelve yards when the whistle 
blew. 

On Wednesday it became known that Quinlan, of 
the First, was in trouble at the Office and might not 
get reinstated in time to do much more playing. Quin¬ 
lan was only a second-string guard, but he was a good 
man and his loss was no light matter. “G. G.” reached 
out and grabbed Clem Henning away from the Scrub, 


160 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


and the wails of that aggregation were loud and heart¬ 
rending. As Tom pointed out, and as most of the 
others acknowledged, it was luck for Clem, and for his 
sake they were glad enough, but his loss left a gaping 
hole in the Scrub line that Joe Craigie couldn’t wholly 
fill. After two days of experimenting, Coach Babcock 
put Joe back at left tackle and gave the right guard 
position to Howlett. Howlett was light, but he had 
plenty of fight, and in time he learned his duties very 
well. But during the rest of that week the disrupted 
Scrub took some fine wallopings from the First and 
got but one score. That single bit of glory belonged 
about evenly to Clif and Johnny Thayer. It was Clif 
who pulled down Jackson’s long heave across the left 
of the line and ran it through a thickly populated alien 
territory to the four yards where he was tackled from 
behind by Duval. If Clif was still weak at making 
tackles he was certainly strong at avoiding them, for 
no fewer than four of the First at one time or another 
laid hands on him. Clif had a way of spinning out of 
delaying clutches that was very pretty indeed! From 
the four yards, Johnny Thayer, at fullback, took 
the ball across in one straight plunge on Cotter. 
Sim Jackson fumbled the pass and there was no 
goal. 

Clif and Johnny were metaphorically presented with 
the Key of the City by their grateful team mates on 
Friday night. That score had been sorely needed to 
prop up the Scrub’s declining self-respect, and so those 
who had provided it were momentary heroes. Tom 
161 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


didn’t stop lavishing praise on Clif all the evening, and 
he was ably abetted by Loring. Tom was inclined to 
lose track of the fact that the First Team was in all 
ways a superior organization and to lay every detail 
to the Scrub’s shortcomings rather than to the adver¬ 
sary’s fuller knowledge and better playing. It was hard 
to make him see why the Scrub didn’t have an even 
chance at every game. Tom was making a very good 
captain, although, as frequently happens, being captain 
had slowed up his progress as a player. Not that Tom 
wasn’t still holding down the left halfback position in 
good shape, for he was. He was a more certain gainer 
through the line than Lou Stiles, was a better punter 
than any one on the First except “Big Bill” Fargo 
and could get a forward-pass off .in fine style. It was 
just that his anxiety to have the Scrub a great team 
caused him to give more thought to its development 
than to the individual duties of Tom Kemble, with the 
result that Tom’s progress was not quite keeping up 
with that of the others. Tom was far from realizing 
this, although Mr. Babcock, who played no favorites, 
was after Tom a good deal during practice. Doubt¬ 
less if Tom hadn’t had so many things on his mind it 
would have dawned on him that his playing wasn’t 
meeting with “Cocky’s” entire approval. 

Clif encountered Wattles in the corridor on his way 
back from supper that Wednesday evening. Wattles 
was carrying Loring’s tray to the dining room. Clif 
said, “Hello, Wattles,” and would have passed, but 
Wattles would have speech with him. “Mister Bing- 
162 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


ham,” said Wattles earnestly, “may I take the liberty 
of complimenting you, sir, on that remarkable run you 
made this afternoon? Really, sir, it was a most stir¬ 
ring performance!” 

“Think so, Wattles?” laughed Clif. “Well, you’re 
likely to see much better stuff than that if you stick 
around.” 

Wattles shook his head, apparently incredulous. “It 
doesn’t seem possible, sir. The way you evaded those 
young gentlemen of the opposing side was wonderful. 
What I call a most clever performance, sir, a really 
bang-up bit of playing, sir!” 

“Why, thanks, Wattles, that’s very nice of you. 
Getting to like our style of football better, eh?” 

“I’m beginning to understand it, Mr. Bingham, and 
I don’t hesitate to say that, barring what looks 
to me like too heavy a stress on what I may call the 
slugging features, it is a more exciting game than we 
play, sir.” 

“But look here, Wattles, we don’t slug!” 

“No, sir? Oh, very possibly, very possibly. What 
I alluded to is the part where you face each other, Mr. 
Bingham, and then—er—mix it up! But perhaps Mis¬ 
ter Loring has misled me. I understood from him 
that using the fists was permissible, quite the usual 
thing. I have the wrong—er—dope, sir?” 

. “You certainly have, Wattles!” Clif laughed. “Lor- 
ing’s been ‘having’ you, as you’d say!” 

“Very likely, sir,” sighed Wattles. “Thank you.” 

Cupples Institute, Wyndham’s opponent the next 
163 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


afternoon, had been defeated by Wolcott a fortnight 
before, 19 to 7. To those who delighted in compara¬ 
tive scores to-day’s contest was of much interest. The 
Dark Blue was expected to win, but by a close score, 
and whether that score would better 19 to 7 was prob¬ 
lematical. However, Cupples didn’t show as strong 
as expected. Wyndham outpunted her all through the 
game and outrushed her during two periods. Fargo 
went over for Wyndham’s first score four minutes 
after the kick-off and Stoddard kicked goal. Again, 
in the second, Fargo added another touchdown, and 
again Stoddard did his part. The half ended: Wynd¬ 
ham 14, Cupples o. 

With Ogden replacing Jensen and two second-string 
men relieving Fargo by turns in the fourth period, the 
Dark Blue was less assertive. There were two long 
runs and some decent gains through the Cupples line 
around midfield, but the best Wyndham could do in 
either of the remaining quarters was to add two field- 
goals to her score. 

Wyndham was highly pleased with the result of that 
afternoon’s performance since, any way you looked at 
it, 20 to o was eight points better than Wolcott’s score 
of 19 to 7. There was also a pleasant conviction that, 
had she wanted to, Wyndham could have done even 
better. The only fly in the ointment came to light the 
next day when a perusal of the morning papers re¬ 
vealed the fact that Wolcott had defeated Toll’s Acad¬ 
emy 26 to 9. 

Toll’s was Wyndham’s next opponent, and had been 
164 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


counted on to give the Dark Blue a lot of trouble. The 
New York team had gone through five contests without 
having her goal-line crossed and it had been expected 
that she would hold Wolcott to a very meager score. 
Indeed, there were plenty at Wyndham who had, no 
later than yesterday, predicted for Wolcott nothing 
better than a tie game. Tom refused to believe his 
own paper and was only convinced of the correctness 
of the score when Clif’s journal told the same story. 
In the light of that result it was necessary to either 
revise their former opinion of Toll’s or to credit Wol¬ 
cott with being about fifty per cent better than they 
had considered her. Tom’s well-known capacity for 
pessimism helped him make out a very good case in 
favor of the latter alternative. 

“If Wolcott can make four touchdowns on Toll’s 
she can trim us, Clif,” he declared gloomily. 

“But she didn’t. She made three touchdowns and 
a field-goal. Can’t you read?” 

“Well, three, then. It makes no difference. Say, 
I’ll bet Toll’s will hand us an awful wallop next Sat¬ 
urday !’’ 

“How do you get that way?” asked Clif indignantly. 
“If we aren’t as good as Wolcott this minute I’ll—I’ll 
treat! Look at yesterday’s game.” 

“Sure, but we’re playing Toll’s on her own field, 
and you know that makes a big difference. Wolcott 
played her at home, with all the cheering her own way. 
Say, it doesn’t say a word about that boy wonder of 
theirs, Goshawk, or whatever his name is. Accord- 

165 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


ing to this, he didn't score a point. He was in the 
line-up, though; played right end.” 

“Probably Wolcott didn’t pull many forward- 
passes,” said Clif. “Guess she didn’t have to. Maybe 
she thought we’d have some scouts there. Say, I won¬ 
der why ‘G. G.’ didn’t go over, or send some one.” 

“Next week,” answered Tom. “He’d rather get his 
dope fresh. That’s what I heard, anyway.” 

After church Clif’s father appeared in the blue car 
and there was another gorgeous feed at the Inn. This 
time Tom was the only guest, for Walter was taking 
dinner with friends in the village. The weather was 
not at all kind, and the ride in the afternoon was short, 
and Mr. Bingham’s brief visit came to an end well 
before darkness had set in. When he said good-by 
and was speeding off down the drive, the red tail-light 
gleaming between the trees, Clif had a momentary 
qualm of something very like homesickness. But it 
didn’t survive the journey up to Number 34, where 
Tom and Billy Desmond, the latter stretched luxuri¬ 
ously between the protuberances of his beloved couch, 
were wrangling joyously over the relative merits of 
the Princeton and Yale teams. Besides, Clif recalled, 
his father had promised faithfully to come up for the 
Wolcott game, and that was but three weeks away. 
He was to make an early start from Providence on 
Saturday morning, get to Freeburg by noon and then 
take Clif and Tom and probably a couple of other 
fellows over to Cotterville in time for the big event. 
Clif got over his brief depression as he reached Num- 
166 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


ber 34, and, throwing himself on Tom’s bed, remarked 
maliciously that, as for Yale or Princeton, there was 
only one real football team doing business that fall. 
“Listen, you two. Cornell could lick either of them 
without getting really warmed up well!” 

Forgetting their previous differences, Tom and Billy 
united in a common cause and spent the succeeding ten 
minutes telling Clif what an ignoramus he was. 

On Monday, facing a patched-up First Team, the 
Fighting Scrub dug its claws deep and gouged and 
tore its way to a one-score victory. There was no 
luck about it, either. It was no fluke win. Scrub just 
took the ball away from a somewhat dreamy First 
near midfield and hammered and thrust its way to the 
six yards. Johnny Thayer sustained facial abrasions 
that made him look like an utter stranger to his com¬ 
panions, Lou Stiles delayed proceedings while they 
pumped air back into him, and Tom walked with a pro¬ 
nounced limp for the rest of the day, but between them 
they landed the ball on the six yards. Coach Otis, pur¬ 
suing his charges with stinging comments and much 
excellent advice, wore a somewhat dazed expression 
by then. Sportingly, however, he refrained from 
strengthening his team with even one of the eager as¬ 
pirants who dragged their blankets along the side-line. 

“Watch the ball, First!” he snapped. “Hold them 
now! Higgs, get down, man! Close up there, 
Smythe, and stop this play! Throw them back, First!” 

“Let’s have it!” shouted Sim hoarsely. “Smear ’em, 
Scrub! Let’s have this score!” 

167 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Get into it, Scrub! Fight!’’ panted Tom. “Smash 
'em up! You can do it! Show ’em who you are! 
Come on, you Fighting Scrub!” 

“Third down,” called Manager Macon, refereeing, 
“and about four to go!” Then he blew his whistle. 

The lines swayed, First thrust forward desperately, 
Sim, doubled over the ball, turned his back to the 
melee as Tom plunged past. Then Johnny Thayer 
reached for the pigskin, wrapped his long arms about 
it and crashed into the faltering Tom. Confusion, 
grunts, smothered words, the grinding and rasping of 
canvas against canvas, and then a sudden forward 
movement of the right of the line that as suddenly 
stopped and the shrill blast of the whistle. Macon 
dived into the pile and the confusion became order. 

“Not over! About a foot to go, Scrub! Fourth 
down!” 

The Scrub yelled its triumph, the First snarled back, 
the coaches hurled commands and Sim gave his signals 
again. What had yielded eleven feet was surely good 
for one, and Johnny, leading the tandem, the ball tightly 
hugged, dashed again at the same point and, as he 
struck the line, thrust the trampled turf away from him 
and went up and forward over the shoulders of the 
enemy and, ere the tide set backward, held the ball for 
an instant well past the last white streak! 

First trotted, walked or limped back to the gymna¬ 
sium a few minutes later with, for the time, nothing 
further to ask of life. Tom, smiting Johnny between 
his broad shoulders, asked solicitously yet joyously: 

168 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“How’re you feeling, old son?” And Johnny, grin¬ 
ning painfully with swollen lips, croaked: “Like a two- 
year-old, Tom! Say, didn’t we give ’em fits?*’ 

“Fits? We trampled on ’em, Johnny, we trampled 
on ’em! The Fighting Scrub, that’s us, boy!” 




CHAPTER XV 
TOM’S LUCK TURNS 
HE discouraging thing about beating the First 



was that the First wouldn’t stay beaten. If 


JL you scored on it one day it came back the 
following day and tried to see just how overbearing it 
could be. Or if you beat it on Monday, say, it spent 
the rest of the week rubbing your face in the dirt, until 
you almost wished you hadn’t been so rash. So the 
Scrub’s hour of triumph was brief. On Tuesday the 
enemy, with all its best talent present, took a long, crav¬ 
ing look at the Scrub and proceeded to devour it. Three 
scores, two touchdowns and a field-goal resulted from 
the first period, by the end of which the Scrub was 
somewhat demoralized although still fighting. During 
the five minutes of intermission Mr. Babcock managed 
to restore his charges to a fair condition of useful¬ 
ness. What no one could understand was why, when 
the Scrub had the ball, the First got the jump every 
time and upset every play before it reached the line. 
This had happened with such monotony that the most 
reasonable explanation seemed to be that the First had 
somehow since yesterday become endowed with clair¬ 
voyant powers that enabled it to know beforehand what 
the opponent meant to do. That the First had learned 
the Scrub signals had occurred to the latter, only to be 


170 


TOM S LUCK TURNS 


promptly rejected. Neither Coach Otis nor Captain 
Lothrop would profit by such an advantage. Yet, 
merely to make a certainty more sure, or, perhaps, be¬ 
cause no other remedy suggested itself, the signals, 
already changed when Clem Henning had joined the 
enemy forces, had been switched again since play had 
started. So that couldn’t be it. 

Yet something was wrong. The Scrub wasn’t play¬ 
ing any slower than usual; in fact, both line and back- 
field were almost beating the ball; and yet to-day the 
only safe play for the Scrub was a punt, and even one 
of those had been nearly blocked! “Cocky” puzzled 
and wracked his brain without finding the solution, and 
the Scrub went back to the massacre still perplexed 
and irritated. Yet the second scrimmage period wasn’t 
so bad, for there was only one more score by the First, 
and the Scrub made four first downs and got within 
twenty yards of the enemy’s goal. Nevertheless it was 
a chastened and somewhat dazed squad which made its 
weary way back to the gymnasium in the early dusk. 
Perhaps the defeated army after Waterloo felt about 
the way the Scrub did. Yesterday they had been, 
to-day they were not. And no one was able to say 
why! 

No one in the Scrub, that is. Almost any member 
of the First Team could have explained the mystery 
very promptly had he chose. But he didn’t choose. 
The First merely looked superior and a little bit con¬ 
temptuous; and it took two Firsts and three Scrubs 
to separate A 1 Greene and “Swede” Hanbury in the 
171 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


shower room after “Swede” had made what sounded 
like a perfectly innocent observation regarding the 
afternoon’s proceedings. Even so the peacemakers 
didn’t intervene in time to prevent bloodshed, for A 1 
was sniffing through an ensanguined nose as he was led 
protestingly away and “Swede” was working his jaws 
experimentally and prodding the left side of his chin 
with an inquiring finger. 

Beside the First Team members, however, the secret 
of the Scrub’s overthrow was known to one other at 
least. Loring, seated in his chair beyond the third 
turn of the running track, attended by the faithful Wat¬ 
tles, had used his eyes and his book-learned knowledge 
of football to advantage, and so, after supper, when 
Tom did not appear promptly at the room on the first 
floor of East, Wattles was sent in search of him. As 
Tom was in Mr. Babcock’s study just then, Wattles 
failed to find him. Clif, encountered by Wattles in a 
corridor, was of no assistance, for Clif had been search¬ 
ing for Tom himself. But Clif agreed to deliver the 
message when the missing one was found, and Wattles 
returned to report failure. Clif didn’t find an oppor¬ 
tunity to deliver that message, however, until he ran 
into Tom on the way to assembly hall, and so it wasn’t 
until after study hour that the two reached Loring’s 
room. Tom had done very little studying, for the 
fact that Loring had sent for him had plunged him into 
a sea of conjecture. It might just be that Loring could 
throw light on the engrossing mystery. The chap was 
certainly sharp! Already he had offered two or three 
172 



TOM S LUCK TURNS 


suggestions that, passed on to Coach Babcock, had been 
adopted to the betterment of the Scrub. Tom had 
acknowledged to Clif no later than Saturday that 
Loring was really being of use! 

“Say,’" demanded Tom anxiously when Clif had 
closed the door behind them, “what’s on your mind, 
Loring?” 

“What’s on yours ?” asked Loring smilingly. 

Tom groaned. “Not a thing in the world, old son! 
Nothing but the trifling recollection of having been 
licked 23 to o this afternoon. Come on! Spill it! 
I know you’ve got some sort of dope.” 

“Well, I know one reason why you got beaten so 
badly, Tom.” 

“What is it?” 

“First jumped you every time.” 

“O Sacred Ibis of the River Nile!” wailed Tom. “Is 
that the best you can do? Listen, Loring. Strange 
as it may sound to you, quite a few of us guessed that 
about five hours ago!” 

“And did you also guess why?” asked Loring 
sweetly. 

“We guessed, yes, but they were rotten guesses. Do 
you know ?” 

“I think I do. The answer is ‘Jackson.’ ” 

“Sim? How do you mean?” Tom sat up straight 
and opened his eyes widely. 

“Didn’t you notice that after the first few minutes 
of the second period you fellows began to make your 
plays go?” 


173 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


‘‘Yes, they certainly went better in the second show/’ 

“And after Duval went in at quarter for Jackson ?” 

“By Jove, that’s so! But what—how—” 

“Tom, if the other fellow tells you a second before¬ 
hand when the ball’s going into play isn’t that a bit 
of a help to you? Doesn’t it allow you to beat the ball 
a bit?” 

“You mean that Sim gave the play away? I 
mean—” 

“Yes. Remember that First was penalized twice for 
off-side? Well, it ought to have been penalized half 
a dozen more times. It would have been if I’d been 
refereeing. Those fellows watched Jackson and 
started before the ball every time you had it. By the 
time the runner got the ball there was no chance for 
him. Two or three times—’’ 

“But, great Scott, what did Jackson do? I didn’t 
see anything wrong, Loring.” 

“You were too close, Tom. I wish I had the use 
of my legs so I could show you. Clif, you be Jackson 
for a minute, like a good chap. All right. Give your 
signals—wait, you’re turning this way now, bending 
down. That’s it. ‘Signals!’ Now then, you turn 
toward the center. You’ve had your left hand, or your 
right, maybe, on the center’s back while you’ve 
been giving the signal, but now you drop it and 
hold your hands for the ball. Act it out that way, 
please.” 

“I’ll try,” laughed^Clif. “Signals! Twenty-three, 
forty-three, seventeen! Twenty-three, forty-three—” 
174 




TOM’S LUCK TURNS 


He dropped his right hand from an imaginary back 
and—” 

“See it?” exclaimed Loring. 

Tom shook his head in puzzlement as Clif straight¬ 
ened up again. “Why, his shoulder, man!” said 
Loring impatiently. “First it’s way up like this where 
half the First Team’s linemen can see it. Then it dis¬ 
appears and after you’ve counted two the ball is 
snapped. That’s as regular as—as—why, it never 
fails! I timed it half a dozen times, Tom. Down 
went Jackson’s shoulder and from three-quarters to a 
second afterwards Ridgway snapped. Some one found 
that out and spread it. Now the First Team forwards 
watch Jackson’s shoulder instead of the ball or the men 
in front of them and when it ducks they charge. Some¬ 
times they were past the line before the ball was in 
Jackson’s hands. If there had been a linesman he 
would have penalized First six or eight times; almost 
every time you chaps had the ball in the first half; but 
a referee or an umpire can’t see that sort of thing from 
where he stands. When Duval went in you began to 
make your plays good because the First wasn’t being 
tipped off when to start.” 

“Heck!” murmured Tom. “So that was it ! A sim¬ 
ple little thing like that! My sainted Aunt Jerusha! 
And no one saw it!” 

“I don’t see what your blamed old aunt’s got to do 
with it,” objected Clif disgustedly. “I’ve said all along, 
and so has Loring, that we ought to cut out passing 
to the quarter except when—” 

175 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“What’s the difference?’’ demanded Tom. “Sim 
would do the same thing if the pass was direct to the 
runner. He’s got to learn to keep his shoulder out 
of sight. Either that or quit! Say, I’ve known backs 
who gave the play away by shifting or moving their 
feet or something, but this is the first time I ever heard 
of a quarter giving the other team a starting signal! 
Heck, wouldn’t that jar you?” 

“Well, I’m glad we know what’s wrong,” said Clif 
thankfully. “To-morrow—” 

“To-morrow! Say, I’ve got to see ‘Cocky’!” Tom 
jumped for the door. “Loring, you win the spun 
glass crow-bar, old son! See you later!” 

Then the door slammed. 

Three minutes later Tom was enlightening a sur¬ 
prised, relieved and somewhat chagrined “Cocky.” But 
after several minutes of explanations and questions and 
comments the coach suddenly looked puzzled. “But 
look here, Kemble. An hour ago you didn’t know any 
more than I did. How does it happen you come along 
now and—” 

“Loring Deane,” said Tom. “Let me tell you about 
him, sir.” 

So Tom told, ending with: “Two or three things 
I spoke to you about weren’t my ideas at all. They 
were his. I wasn’t trying to swipe the credit for them, 
Mr. Babcock, but I thought you’d think I was sort of 
crazy if I told you about Loring. Heck, I only did 
it because the poor guy wanted to get in on football. 
He’s a regular nut, sir. Then, blamed if he didn’t 
176 




TOM’S LUCK TURNS 


come across with two or three good ideas, like the one 
about playing Bingham close in on forward-passes to 
the right, and it just seemed easier to let you think 
that they were brain-waves of my own than explain.” 

“I see. Well, it looks to me, Kemble, as though it 
would be a rather brilliant idea to encourage Deane. 
Guess we’d better attach him to our 'coaching staff,’ ” 
Mr. Babcock added laughingly. 

"I wish he would let you see some of the plays he’s 
planned. Some of them look pretty good to me, but 
I’m not much of a hand at diagrams.” 

"I’d like to see them, of course,” replied Mr. Bab¬ 
cock, not very enthusiastically. "Bring them along 
some evening.’’ 

"I spoke about that, sir, but he didn’t seem Keen 
for it. He’s got a forward-pass play, with an end 
throwing, that looks sort of good, and I was wondering 
if we couldn’t try it out, Mr. Babcock. There’s a lot 
of us who would like mighty well to beat Minster High 
next Saturday. And then, of course, we’ve got to lick 
that Wolcott Scrub!” 

"I’ll drop in on Deane to-morrow and get him to 
show me what he’s got. I’d like to make his acquaint¬ 
ance, too. Oh, by the way, Kemble, there’s something 
I meant to speak of when you were in here before. 
How are you getting on in classes?” 

"Me, sir? Well, I’m all right, I guess. Of course, 
I’m not what you could call a shining example right 
now, Mr. Babcock, but as soon as football’s over I’ll 
be sitting pretty.” 


177 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Hm. Well, if I were you I’d find plenty of time 
for studying, my boy. In fact, I’d make rather an 
effort just now, because it wouldn’t do to have some¬ 
thing come up and prevent you from playing. Think 
it over, will you? A word to the wise, as they say. 
Good night.” 

“Now,” reflected Tom, as he made his way back 
to East, “just what did he mean by that? Some one’s 
been talking, and I’ll bet it’s that old ‘Alick.’ Maybe 
I’d better try to make a better showing with him. He’s 
been looking sort of mean lately. Yes, sir, Pd just 
better get back on ‘Alick’s’ good side.” 

Wednesday’s sensation was the showing of the 
Scrub against the First in two periods of fifteen and 
ten minutes each. With Charlie Duval at quarter most 
of the time, the Scrub held the enemy on the defense 
all through the first period and, while it wasn’t able 
to get across the goal-line, it made the adversary play 
harder for some minutes than it had played all the 
fall. In the second period, with many substitutes pres¬ 
ent on both teams, the First got the upper hand and 
managed to hold it, finally working the ball close to 
the Scrub’s goal and losing it when Ogden fumbled 
a pass from center. A few minutes later it tried a des¬ 
perate attempt at a goal from the thirty-six yards and 
missed it narrowly. Following that, with less than 
three minutes left, Scrub faked a punt and sent Tom 
galloping past left tackle to midfield. Tom was having 
one of his good days, and now, aided and abetted by 
Johnny Thayer, he secured two more first downs before 
i 7 8 




TOM’S LUCK TURNS 


First steadied and stopped the onslaught. After 
Johnny had punted over the line the whistle blew and 
ended the scoreless battle. 

Loring had a tale to tell that evening. Mr. Babcock 
had been in to see him just after dinner and they had 
had a wonderful talk about football and the Scrub Team 
and those plays of his, for “Cocky” had made him 
show them, saying that Tom had told about them. 
“And he went away with four of them,” said Loring, 
trying to conceal his delight. “Said he wanted to 
study them and that if they looked all right he’d have 
you fellows try them out some day soon.” 

“Did he take that forward-pass from end?’’ asked 
Tom. 

“Yes, and he was looking at that a long time. Say, 
wouldn’t it be corking if that worked all right?” 

“Work? Of course it will work. It’ll go big. 
Mark my words, old son.” 

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe there’s a weak spot 
somewhere. Mr. Babcock says you can’t really tell a 
whole lot about plays until you’ve actually tried them 
out against another team.” 

“That one’s all right,’’ replied Tom confidently. “I’d 
like to use it against Minster next Saturday and get it 
working nicely for the Wolcott Scrub. I like that 
play. I’ll bet it turns out to be the cheese, old son!” 

That settled, he and Loring arranged the chess-men 
and Clif settled himself with a book. At five minutes 
to eight, the game being still undecided, the board was 
set aside until after study hour and Tom hurried up 
179 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


to Number 34 for his books. Billy Desmond met him 
at the head of the stairs. 

“ ‘Alick’s’ been looking for you, Tom,” announced 
Billy casually. “Wants to converse with you in his 
study, young feller.” 

“ ‘Alick’! Golly! Say, did he look—er—pleas¬ 
ant?” 

“Extremely jovial, I thought.’’ 

Tom groaned. “There’s breakers ahead then. He’s 
always sweet and pleasant just before he bites! Well, he 
will have to wait until after study. Heck, I wish 
I’d put in more time on my English this morning, in¬ 
stead of wasting it on math!” 

Clif pushed Loring’s chair along the corridor after 
study hour and informed him that the chess game was 
going to be delayed. “Tom’s got to see Mr. Wyatt, 
and he’s scared to death.” Clif chuckled. “Wyatt’s 
the only person he ever was scared of, I guess!” 

“I hope ‘Alick’ isn’t going to be nasty,” said Loring 
uneasily. “You know, Clif, Tom’s an awful dumb¬ 
bell about English. Yesterday I thought ‘Alick’ was 
going to have a conniption when Tom gave those per¬ 
fectly inane answers about ‘The Ancient Mariner.’ ” 

“He was quaint,” laughed Clif. “But I guess 
‘Alick’s’ just reading him the riot-act. Hang it, you 
know, Tom does try!” 

“Y-yes, I know, but—” Loring shook his head. 
“Oh, well, he will pull through. He’s an awfully 
lucky dub!” 

Half an hour later, however, the lucky dub didn’t 
180 




TOM’S LUCK TURNS 


look the part as, closing the door of Number 4 West 
behind him, he thrust his hands into his pockets and 
stared dazedly down the short corridor. He stood 
there a long minute before, with a shrug and a hard¬ 
ening of his features, he made his way briskly around 
the comer and set out for East Hall. He did a great 
deal of thinking on the way, but the more he thought 
the less happy he became, and when he at last reached 
Loring’s room he had to pause for an instant to wet his 
lips and work his face back into shape. When he went 
in he was grinning, and, since Clif had grown to know 
him fairly well by now, there was one occupant of the 
room not deceived by that grin Loring asked anx¬ 
iously : “Was he bad, Tom?” 

“Well, depends,” replied Tom, seating himself with 
unusual decorum. “What would you call bad, old 
son ?” 

“Why—” 

But Clif interrupted bruskly. “What’s he done, 
Tom? Don’t act the fool! Let’s hear it.” 

“All right! He’s handed me a dirty wallop, if you 
must know, the old skunk! I’m on restriction.” 

“Restriction!” exclaimed Loring. “Why, then— 
then you can’t—” 

“So he very carefully reminded me,” said Tom bit¬ 
terly. “Oh, he didn’t forget anything! Said the Of¬ 
fice had had my case under consideration for some time 
and that only my standing in other studies had kept 
them from giving me the ax before. Said maybe if 
my time wasn’t so taken up with football I’d—” Tom 
181 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


stopped and shook his head. “Oh, he put the harpoon 
into me good and hard, and turned it around a couple 
of times. Well, I’m done for this season.” 

“But, great Scott, isn’t he going to let you make up 
—or something?” demanded Clif. “He can’t keep you 
from playing all the rest of the season, can he ? Why, 
there’s more than two weeks yet!” 

“Oh, sure, I can make up,” laughed Tom grimly. 
“All I’ve got to do is get eighty or better from now on, 
write a nice little theme of five hundred words on 
Coleridge’s 'Ancient Mariner’—five hundred, mind 
you!—and make up some stuff in paragraph structure 
that I fell down on Monday. Oh, sure, I can make up 
all right!” 

“Well, but how long have you got to—to—” 

“Friday afternoon for the theme. Heck, what’s the 
use of talking about it? I couldn’t write a hundred 
words about that blamed old mariner, let alone five 
hundred! And then getting eighty! Why, hang it, 
I’ve never got better than sixty-five in English, and 
I never expect to! It’s rotten stuff, and I hate it. 
Composition and rhetoric, and the whole blamed busi¬ 
ness! No, sir, I’m plumb through!” 

“How do you mean, through?” asked Clif sharply. 

Tom’s gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment 
he made no answer. Then he shrugged his shoulders. 
“Well, what do you think?” he asked bitterly. 
“Wouldn’t you call it through ?” ^£Then, after a pause. 
“I dare say you fellows will make Johnny Thayer 
captain.” 


182 




CHAPTER XVI 

LORING TAKES COMMAND 

T HE chess game was never finished. Ten 
o’clock arrived with nothing much left to be 
said, and with scant lessening of the general 
gloom. Loring insisted that by trying hard Tom could 
get that theme handed in by the designated time, that 
he could make up the other stuff easily, and that, if he 
really set his mind on it, he could keep his English 
work up to the required standard. But even Loring 
realized that a little over two weeks was scant time 
in which to convince a sceptical instructor of one’s re¬ 
form, and that, with the best of luck, Tom could 
scarcely hope for reinstatement early enough to be of 
much further use to the Scrub. Clif’s best suggestion 
was that Tom see his adviser the first thing in the 
morning, and ask him to intercede. Tom agreed to do 
this, but plainly he was not hopeful. Mr. Parks and 
he had not taken to each other greatly, and Tom’s secret 
conviction was that “Cheese” wouldn’t be likely to go 
to much trouble in the matter. Finally they parted, 
Clif accompanying Tom to the door of Number 34 
and leaving him with a lugubrious “Oh, well, cheer up, 
Tom. Maybe it won’t be so bad.” 

At breakfast Ton. was strangely cheerful and ate a 
hearty repast. Yet nothing had happened to better 

183 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


the situation, and Clif was puzzled. Of course if Tom 
had decided to accept conditions philosophically, and 
make the best of them, Clif was pleased, but there was 
something in the other’s manner, a sort of under sur¬ 
face excitement, that prevented Clif from being quite 
satisfied with that explanation. And then, too, Tom 
was so casual when Clif detained him in the corridor 
after breakfast. His replies to the other boy’s ques¬ 
tions were brief and vague. Yes, he was going to see 
“Cheese” right now. And “Cocky” afterward. That 
theme? Well, yes, he might have a go at that later. 
When Clif called “Good luck!” after him as he turned 
down the corridor he said: “Thanks, old son,” and 
waved a hand almost gayly. 

The interview with Mr. Parks was not disappointing 
only because Tom had not hoped that anything would 
come of it. The French instructor firmly refused to 
interfere in the matter, and even managed to make Tom 
feel that he had committed a breach of ethics in pro¬ 
posing such a course. Not, however, that Tom troubled 
about it. He thanked “Cheese” most courteously— 
so courteously, in fact, that the instructor frowned sus¬ 
piciously—and withdrew. Several times during the 
forenoon Clif ran across him in the corridors, and at 
two recitations they occupied adjacent seats, and Clif’s 
puzzlement increased rather than diminished. Tom 
neither looked nor acted his part. Clif confided the 
fact to Loring, adding uneasily: “He’s up to something, 
and I’ll bet it’s something crazy. I wish I knew what.” 

The Scrub did not choose a new captain. There was 
184 




LORING TAKES COMMAND 


the chance that Tom would square himself with the 
Office and return to his duties, and so the Scrub sent 
word to Tom to appoint a temporary leader and Tom’s 
choice was Johnny Thayer, the fullback. That after¬ 
noon the First had very little trouble with the Scrub, 
and scored three times, holding its own goal-line in¬ 
violate. Tom’s absence, both as halfback and captain, 
was felt. With a game against Minster High School 
two days off the Scrub’s showing that Thursday after¬ 
noon wasn’t encouraging. 

Loring returned* to East after the day’s practice was 
over, a little disappointed. Not because of the Scrub’s 
rather sorrry exhibition, but because he had hoped 
that Mr. Babcock would try out his forward-pass play 
in practice, and Mr. Babcock hadn’t done it. Loring 
supposed that Tom’s absence from the team had pre¬ 
vented, and concluded that he would have to wait until 
next season for a test of the play. 

Loring was still eating supper when Clif, looking 
much disturbed, was admitted by Wattles. “He wasn’t 
in dining hall,” announced the visitor, “and I’ve looked 
all over the place for him! He hasn’t been here, has 
he?” 

“Tom? No, I haven’t seen him since noon. He’s 
around somewhere, though, of course!” 

“Yes,” agreed Clif but without conviction. “Just 
the same, it’s not like him to miss a meal. He’s never 
done it before.” 

“Have you tried the library? You know, he might 
be working on that theme.” 

185 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“I’ve looked everywhere I could think of except at 
*J. W.V and he was still at supper a few minutes ago. 
I don’t see where he can be! Unless—gee, he may be 
in my room! I’ll go and see.” 

He hurried out, but five minutes later he was back. 
“He wasn’t there,” he said in reply to Loring’s mute 
question, “but I found this. It was on the table.” He 
drew an envelope from a pocket, and, with an uneasy 
glance at Wattles, laid it on Loring’s tray. 

“You needn’t mind Wattles,” said Loring. He drew 
the single sheet of paper from the envelope, and, with 
Clif leaning over his shoulder, read the message it 
bore: “Dear old Clif, I’m pulling out in half an hour. 
Something told me a long while back that I wasn’t 
going to like this place, and the hunch was dead right. 
I’m going home to-night, and I guess I’ll be back on 
the old High School Team by next week. Tell Billy 
to give you the bundle wrapped in blue paper in my 
top drawer. It’s those golf hose you always liked, 
the ones with the green and yellow tops. I’m going to 
miss you, old son, but we’ll get together somehow at 
Christmas if it can be managed. Keep this mum until 
to-morrow. I’ve got to see the guardian before he 
gets word from the School. Well, old son, here’s luck, 
and I hope we win from Wolcott even if I don’t see it. 
Give my best to Loring. And tell Wattles Cheer-io! 
Yours to the last whistle, T.A.K.—P.S. I’ll write you 
in a day or two. If old Winslow’s nasty I’ll probably 
hike out somewhere on my own. I’ll let you know so 
186 





LORING TAKES COMMAND 


you can drop me a line sometimes, and tell me how; 
things are going. T.” 

Loring slid the sheet back into the envelope, and 
returned it to Clif in silence. Clif as silently thrust the 
note back into a pocket. Then: “Wattles, you might 
take this tray, please,” said Loring, and, when Wattles 
had reached the door with his burden, “I say, get hold 
of a time-table and fetch it back with you.” 

“That’s no good,” said Clif as the door closed. “He 
got the six-thirty-four train, and it’s twelve minutes to 
seven now.” 

“When’s the next one south?” 

“I don’t know exactly. About nine, I think.” 

“Does the six-thirty-something go through to New 
York?” 

“I don’t think so. I guess you have to change at 
Danbury. There are only two through trains, I think; 
the eleven in the morning, and the two-something in 
the afternoon. Even suppose he has to lie over at 
Danbury, though, he’d be gone before we could get 
there. And neither of us could go, anyhow!” 

“We’ll have a look at the time-table first,” said Lor¬ 
ing. “Tom’s done a perfectly idiotic thing, Clif, and 
he oughtn’t to be allowed to get away with it. 
He’s probably sorry already. Anyway, he will be 
in the morning, and the morning will be too late. 
We’ve got to get him back here to-night—some¬ 
how!” 

“I wish we could,” agreed Clif desperately, “but I 

187 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


don’t believe there’s a train back from Danbury before 
morning, even if I got there before he’d left. Besides, 
if he didn’t want to come back with me I couldn’t make 
him, could I? He’s beastly stubborn. And I’d have 
to cut study hour, and if faculty found it out we’d 
both be in wrong.” 

“No, you couldn’t go,” said Loring. “There’d be 
no sense in you getting into trouble, too. And, as you 
say, you couldn’t make him come back if he didn’t 
want to. And even if he really wanted to, he probably 
wouldn’t. He’d be ashamed to quit and turn back, I 
guess. No, you wouldn’t do, Clif.” 

“Then who—what—” 

But just then Wattles returned with the time-table, 
and Loring eagerly spread it open before him. “Get 
a pencil, Clif, and stand by, will you? All set? Leave 
Freeburg 6134. Arrive Danbury 9: 07. That’s a slow 
old train! Leave Danbury for New York—wait a 
minute. Yes, that’s right. Leave Danbury* 9152. 
Arrive New York n 135. Got it? Now let’s see about 
the next one. Leave Freeburg—leave Freeburg—leave 
—Here we are! Leave Freeburg 8:54. Arrive 
Danbury 11:02. Hm, that’s an hour and ten min¬ 
utes too late. No use trying to catch him by train, 
Wattles.” 

“No, sir,” agreed Wattles impassively. 

“No, it can’t be done. Are we broke, Wattles?” 

“Oh, no, sir, I believe there’s something like forty 
dollars in the trunk, and I have a small sum on me, 


188 




LORING TAKES COMMAND 


“Say, fifty altogether? That may do. You might 
see just what we have got.” 

“I have three or four dollars,” said Clif eagerly. 

“With you?” 

“No, but—” 

“Don’t bother. We’ve probably enough. What do 
you say, Wattles?” 

“Fifty-five, sir, and a bit of change.” 

“Plenty! All right. You know what to do, Wattles. 
Bring him back.” 

“Yes, sir, but if the young gentleman shouldn’t care 
to return?” 

“I’d use persuasion, Wattles; any kind.” 

“Look here,” exclaimed Clif, “do you mean you’re 
going to send Wattles?” 

“Unless you can suggest some one better,” answered 
Loring. “I’d make certain first of all that he really got 
off on that six-thirty-four. He might have missed it, 
although he probably didn’t. Perhaps the agent will 
remember him. After that—well, Danbury’s around 
sixty miles, I believe, and it oughtn’t to take you more 
than an hour and a half at this time of night. It’s 
now seven-nine, so you ought to fetch there by—let’s 
see; allowing for delays in getting started, by nine or 
a few minutes later. So you’ll probably get to Dan¬ 
bury about the same time that he does. That’ll allow 
you about forty-five minutes to make him see sense. 
Tell him we sent word that if he comes back with you 
no one will know he ever went off. I’ll leave this 
window here wide open, Wattles, and he ought to be 
189 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


able to get to his room without being seen. Better 
stop the car well down the street. Don’t try to get 
back before midnight, either. Better give folks here 
a chance to get to sleep. And, Wattles.” 

“Yes, sir.” Wattles had taken an overcoat from 
the closet, and now, his black derby in hand, he stood 
rigidly at attention, his long countenance even more 
than usually solemn. 

“It will be worth five dollars extra to the man who 
drives you if he forgets all about it by to-morrow.” 

“So I was thinking, Mister Loring. There’s a fel¬ 
low works in the garage who has a car of his own, 
sir, and as we’ve struck up a bit of an acquaintance, 
sir, I fancy he would be quite the chap for the—er— 
undertaking.” 

“Good! Better put this memorandum of the trains 
in your pocket. Got the money?” 

Wattles tapped the inside pocket of his coat. 

“Then go to it! I’ll expect you back about mid¬ 
night. Good luck, Wattles!” 

“Thank you, sir.” Wattles reached the door and 
paused, a hand on the knob. “You understand, Mister 
Loring, I am doing this with the understanding you’re 
not to leave the chair until I get back, sir.” 

“Oh, absolutely, Wattles! Cross my heart. You’ll 
find me right here. I may be asleep, but I’ll stick to 
the jolly old chair!” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Wattles again. Then the 
door closed behind him, and Loring, chuckling, looked 
at his watch. 

190 




LORING TAKES COMMAND 


“Eleven minutes past,” said Loring. “Fifteen min¬ 
utes to get to the village and find his man. Five min¬ 
utes to get started. Five minutes more at the station. 
Barring accidents, Clif, he ought to roll into Danbury 
by nine-ten.” 

“I dare say,” Clif agreed, “but if Tom is still set 
on going home I guess Wattles won’t be able to do 
much.’ 

“Oh, Wattles will fetch him,” said Loring confi¬ 
dently. “Now it’s up to us to fix things at this end. 
What about his absence from supper ? Suppose it was 
noticed ?” 

“Why, yes, but that doesn’t matter. If a fellow 
doesn’t want to come to his meals he doesn’t have to. 
No one’s going to bother about that, but if he’s missed 
from assembly hall it’s good night! I wonder who’s 
in charge to-night!” 

“That’s so. I’d forgotten about study hour.” Lor¬ 
ing thoughtfully thumbed the pages of the time-table. 
Finally; “Say, is it hard to get permission to cut study 
hour, Clif?” 

“Gee, I don’t know. I never tried it. Why?” 

“I was thinking that if Tom got permission to 
stay away, because of illness or something, he might 
get by.” 

“Of course, but how can he get excused if he isn’t 
here to ask?” 

“Couldn’t you do it for him ?” 

The two boys observed each other in thoughtful 
silence for a moment. Then Clif’s eyes lighted. “Gee, 
191 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


I might!” he exclaimed. “Only—well, I’d sort of hate 
to have to lie, Loring.” 

“Don’t do it. Listen. Here’s how you work it.” 
Loring’s voice dropped a tone and Clif hitched his 
chair closer. 




CHAPTER XVII 
WATTLES USES COERCION 


<( TS it necessary, sir, for Tom Kemble to ask for 
permission to cut study hour himself?” 

JL “How’s that?” asked Mr. McKnight, smiling. 
“If Kemble cut study hour he would have to do it 
himself, wouldn’t he Bingham?” 

“Yes, sir. I meant, does he have to ask himself?’” 

“It would be much better if he asked me, or one of 
the other faculty members,” responded “Lovey” 1 
gravely. “His own permission, supposing he obtained 
it, would hardly be sufficient, I fear.” 

Clif laughed. For once he didn’t find Mr. Mc- 
Knight’s fooling very funny, but he must be diplomatic. 
“I guess I can’t say it right, sir, but you know mighty 
well what I mean.” 

“I suspect I do, Bingham. Kemble wants to be ex¬ 
cused from study hour, and has sent you as his am¬ 
bassador. I am to presume, I fancy, that he is too 
ill to make the request himself. Or does he think that 
you’ll prove more successful than he would?” Mr. 
McKnight’s eyes were twinkling. 

“No, sir,” answered Clif earnestly, “it really isn’t 
that way, Mr. McKnight. He—he isn’t able to come.” 

“I’m sorry. It isn’t anything serious, I hope.” The 
instructor’s voice was so genuinely sympathetic that 
193 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Clif felt ashamed of the deception he was attempting. 

“I don’t think so, sir. He didn’t go down to supper, 
but I guess he will be all right by morning.” 

“I hope so. I’m not so sure, though, you shouldn’t 
have gone to some one on Kemble’s floor. He’s in 34, 
isn’t he? However, as you are acting in his behalf, 
and you are on my floor, I’ll take the responsibility of 
excusing him. Is he in bed?” 

“N-no, sir. That is, he wasn’t when I was up there.” 

“Oh, better tell him to get to bed, Bingham. That’s 
the best place for him, no matter what’s wrong. Prob¬ 
ably just an upset of his tummy. You chaps take awful 
chances, the way in which you stuff yourselves with 
sweet chocolate and peanuts and Heaven only knows 
what! By the way, Kemble’s on restriction, isn’t he ?” 

“Yes, sir. He got in wrong with ‘Alick’—I mean 
Mr. Wyatt!” 

Mr. McKnight’s nose twitched, but he didn’t smile. 
“Too bad. I dare say that’s upset him somewhat, too. 
I’ll look in on him a little later and see if he needs 
anything.” 

“I’m sure he doesn’t, sir,” said Clif hurriedly, striv¬ 
ing to keep the sound of panic from his voice. “I 
think he means to go to sleep.” 

“Best thing for him. Tell him it’s all right about 
study hour, Bingham, and that he’s to get into bed. 
I don’t want to find him up, reading stories, when I 
call!” 

“Yes, sir—I mean no, sir!” stammered Clif. “I’ll 
tell him. I don’t believe he’d want you to bother about 
194 




WATTLES USES COERCION 


looking in on him, though.” Then, seeing or fancy¬ 
ing he saw, the dawning of suspicion in “Lovey’s” 
eyes, Clif abandoned that line quickly. “Well, thank 
you, sir.” 

“Not at all, Bingham.” When the visitor had gone 
Mr. McKnight protruded his lower lip, closed his eyes 
slightly and stared thoughtfully at the ink-well. 
Finally he shook his head. “If it were any one but 
Bingham, now,” he murmured, “I’d be inclined to sus¬ 
pect that something had been put over on me!” 

Upstairs again, in Number 34, Clif related to Billy 
Desmond, in a somewhat small voice, the result of his 
visit. “Gee, if he does come up it’s all off! What’ll 
I do, Billy? I didn’t lie to him, but he will think I 
did, and I’d hate that!” 

“Huh,” said Billy, pinching his nose as an aid to 
concentration of thought, “there’s just one chance, 
Clif, and we’ll have to risk it.” From his closet he 
gathered an armful of clothing, turned down Tom’s 
immaculate bed, heaped the clothing on the sheet and 
pulled blankets and coverlet back into place. From the 
end of the room the illusion was only fairly successful, 
but when Billy had turned the light out, and opened the 
corridor door, admitting the wan radiance from with¬ 
out, none but the most suspicious would have doubted 
that Tom lay there fast asleep, his head covered by the 
sheet. Billy chuckled approvingly. Then he threw a 
pair of his own trousers and a towel, and an old coat 
over the back of the chair by Tom’s bed and tucked 
a pair of shoes underneath it. After that, still chuck- 
195 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


ling at intervals, Billy got his books and closed the 
door behind himself and Clif. 

“That’s the best we can do,” he said, as they made 
their way down the stairs. “It may fool him and it 
may not. The rest, Clif, is in the lap of the gods!” 

It was about half-past eight when Mr. McKnight 
finished Chopin’s Waltz in G Flat Major, and arose 
from the piano. Study hour was the one hour of the 
twenty-four in which he felt at liberty to use the piano 
to his heart’s content, and he was loth to lose the time 
entailed by a visit to Number 34. Even after he was 
on his feet another sheet of music caught his eye, and 
he opened it on the rack and tentatively fingered the 
first bars before finally and resolutely tearing himself 
away. The corridors were pleasantly silent as he made 
his way upstairs and tapped lightly at the closed portal 
of Number 34. There was no reply, and he turned 
the knob and thrust the door inward. The room was 
in darkness and no sound came to him. Evidently 
his advice had been acted on, for Kemble was not only 
in bed but sleeping extraordinarily peacefully. Mr. 
McKnight’s gaze took in the shoes beneath the chair, 
and the garments above. The sleeper remained undis¬ 
turbed, oblivious of the intrusion. The instructor 
smiled as he closed the door softly again and walked 
noiselessly away. 

“Nothing much wrong with him, I guess, if he can 
sleep like that,” he told himself as he sought the stair¬ 
way. “Probably be all right when he wakes up.” Then 
196 




WATTLES USES COERCION 


his thoughts went forward to the piece of music on the 
piano rack, and his steps became swifter. 

That ride to Danbury was long and wearisome to 
Tom. Waiting in the shadows of the station at Free- 
burg, after he had decided not to risk purchasing a 
ticket, but to pay his fare on the train, had been sort 
of exciting, and even after the station lights and the 
lights of the town itself had faded behind him a cer¬ 
tain zest in the adventure had remained. But soon, 
what with the overheated car, the uncomfortable seat, 
the numerous stops and the dust that drifted in at every 
opening, the excitement dwindled fast. At the end of 
an hour he had begun to doubt the brilliancy of the 
exploit. For one thing, it was going to be extremely 
hard sledding to convince his guardian that he had 
taken the right course; the more so since Tom hadn’t 
yet succeeded in convincing himself. Mr. Winslow, an 
estimable gentleman despite Tom’s prejudices, was a 
lawyer, and, being a lawyer, his judgment was not 
easily swayed. You just had to have a good case, and 
Tom was horribly afraid he hadn’t! Well, one thing 
was certain. If Old Winslow insisted on his returning 
to Wyndham he just wouldn’t! No, sir, he’d run away 
first. Maybe he’d go to sea. No, he wouldn’t, either. 
You couldn’t play football at sea! But he’d go some¬ 
where. 

Then there was Clif. He had grown to be rather 
fond of Clif. Until six weeks ago he had never had a 
real chum. He had been friendly with lots of fellows, 
197 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


but close to none. He was going to miss Clif a whole 
lot; was missing him already, in fact. And there was 
Billy, too; and Loring Deane. They were, all three, 
corking chaps, and back home there wouldn’t be any 
one to take their places. If it wasn’t that it was already 
too late— 

He pushed his suitcase forward where he could set 
his feet on it, let his knees dig into the back of the 
seat in front, and moodily stared along the length of 
the ill-lighted coach. No, it was too late to change his 
mind. Study hour was almost over now, and they’d 
have discovered his absence long since. Besides, there 
probably wasn’t any way of getting back, even if he 
wanted to; and, of course, he didn’t. Wyatt had 
played him a rotten trick, and to-morrow the old pest 
would maybe realize it! And, anyway, what was the 
good of being back there when he couldn’t play football 
again this season? Heck, he had done just what any 
fellow with an ounce of gumption and spirit would 
do, and he was glad of it! 

These reflections brought him to the lights of the 
junction, and a few minutes later he was descending 
the car steps, one of a half-hundred passengers from 
the north. To find himself staring into the solemnly 
respectful countenance of Wattles was such a surpris¬ 
ing experience that it was several seconds before he 
found his voice, and during those seconds his suitcase 
was removed from his grasp. Finally: “Why, 
Wattles, were you on that train?” he exclaimed. 

“No, sir, I came by car,” replied the other. “Quite 
198 




WATTLES USES COERCION 


a bit colder, sir, isn’t it? One can do with a coat to¬ 
night, Mister Tom, and I see you have yours with 
you.” Suitcase in hand, Wattles led the way around 
the end of the station, and it was not until he had 
started across the track on the farther side that Tom 
realized wdiat was happening. 

‘‘Hold on, Wattles! What’s the idea?” he asked, 
stopping. 

“The car’s just over here, sir.” 

“What car? I didn’t order any car!” 

“No, sir. Mister Loring and Mr. Clif sent it. I 
was to tell you that everything was quite all right, sir. 
It’s all absolutely sub rosa, Mister Tom. We’ll get 
back to the school by midnight—” 

“So that’s it?” Tom laughed roughly. “Expect 
me to go back with you in the car, eh? Well, nothing 
doing, Wattles. I’m off that dump for keeps. Let’s 
have that bag, please.” 

“Certainly, sir, but if you wouldn’t mind just com¬ 
ing across to the car. I’ve a robe and you’ll be quite 
warm. Your train doesn’t leave for rather more than 
a half-hour, sir, and I’d like very much to deliver my 
message, Mister Tom.” 

“Oh, well, all right,” Tom grumbled. “Go ahead. 
But I’ll tell you right here and now, Wattles, that it’s 
no good. It was mighty nice of them to do this, and 
all that, but I’ve no idea of going back.” 

“Quite so, sir. Thank you. Right this way.” 

The car stood well away from the station, the street 
lights revealing its black bulk, and the figure of the 
199 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


driver on the front seat. Tom laughed as Wattles held 
the tonneau door open. “Some class to you, Wattles! 
Where’d you get the boat?” 

“In the village, sir.” Wattles was unfolding a large 
and heavy rug. “It’s not a new car, sir, but it’s really 
most competent.” 

“Funny idea—” began Tom, with a chuckle. Then; 
“Say! What are you trying—” 

The big robe which Wattles, standing beside him 
in the back of the car, had spread open had enveloped 
him. For the briefest instant Tom thought that Wat¬ 
tles, meaning to lay the rug across his knees, had 
stumbled against the suitcase and fallen against him. 
But that idea vanished before the sudden knowledge 
that Wattles had tricked him! He shouted protest- 
ingly, but the folds of the thick cloth, dust laden and 
odorous of the stable, were about his head, muffling 
the outcry and almost choking him. He strove to get 
to his feet, to push himself free, but in vain. Some¬ 
thing, a rope or a strap, cinched his arms to his body. 
He kicked out wildly, felt himself slip from the seat 
to the floor, found the suitcase under his shrouded 
head, and knew that Wattles was sitting on his legs! 

It had all taken less than a minute, and now the 
driver had scrambled back to the front seat, and the 
engine was shaking the car. Then they were moving. 
Tom, panting from his exertions, relaxed and took a 
long breath. Dust filled his throat and nostrils, and 
he sneezed violently. Wrath induced one final struggle, 
but, although momentarily unseated, Wattles remained 
200 




WATTLES USES COERCION 


in command of the situation. Tom stopped writhing 
and considered events with a fair degree of calmness. 

The car, a good one although of ancient vintage, 
after negotiating the streets of the town at moderate 
speed, was now on a straight hard road, and the en¬ 
gine’s voice arose to a louder song. Wattles, who 
had removed his overcoat before meeting Tom—it 
was a newish coat, and he wanted nothing unfortunate 
to happen to it in case Tom proved obstinate—shiv¬ 
ered as, sitting sidewise on Tom’s legs, he strove to 
keep his balance, and at the same time protect himself 
from the rush of the cold night wind. It was a most 
uncomfortable position, but Wattles was game. With 
Wattles duty was duty, and he was prepared to sit 
like that all the way back to Freeburg if necessary. 

But it wasn’t necessary. Some ten minutes after 
they had left the station there was a series of muffled 
sounds from under the robe and Wattles, leaning 
nearer, said: “Pardon, Mister Tom. Will you say 
that again, please, sir?” 

“I said if you don’t take this pesky thing off I’ll 
smother!” answered Tom through the folds. 

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid it’s rather uncomfortable, and 
I’m sure you’ll understand, sir, how much I deplore 
the necessity of the—the methods—” 

“I can’t hear what you’re saying!” shouted Tom in 
exasperation. “Take this off me! Let me out!” 

“Certainly, sir, only, asking your pardon, Mister 
Tom, I must have your agreement not to leave the 

_ n 

car. 


201 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Go to thunder!” said Tom. 

“Yes, sir.” Wattles retreated, shivering violently. 
After a minute more sounds reached him from beneath 
the rug and again he leaned closer. 

“I’ll promise, Wattles, you blamed idiot! Only take 
this horse blanket off me!” 

“Yes, indeed, sir! Just a moment!” Wattles’s hands 
were busied, the restraint vanished from Tom’s arms, 
the awful robe dragged chokingly away from his face, 
and he sat up, gasping. Wattles, balancing himself 
precariously on his feet, was holding the robe and, as 
shown by the brief radiance of a passing light, shiv¬ 
ering like an aspen. Tom could almost hear the chat¬ 
tering of his teeth. That momentary vision of the 
long, mournful countenance, agitated by the shivers 
that chased up and down Wattles’s spine, was too much 
for Tom. He forgot that he was dreadfully angry, and 
humiliated and burst into wild laughter. 

The driver turned an inquiring face, looked briefly, 
and unemotionally gave his attention back to the road. 
Wattles, fearing hysteria, looked down in grave anx¬ 
iety, and shivered harder than ever. At last: “For 
the love of mud, Wattles, put your coat on!” gasped 
Tom as he weakly pulled himself onto the seat. 

“Yes, sir, just what I was about to do, sir.” Never¬ 
theless, Wattles first placed the robe over Tom’s knees, 
and tucked it about him carefully. Then, at last, he 
managed to get his wavering hands into the armholes 
of his coat, buttoned it tightly and seated himself at 
the extreme limit of the wide seat. “If you’d prefer 
202 




WATTLES USES COERCION 


to sit in front, sir, I fancy you’d find it quite a bit 
warmer.” 

‘Tm all right, but don’t be an ass, Wattles. Slide 
over here and get some of this over you.” 

“Thank you, Mister Tom, but I’m very comfort¬ 
able.” 

“You do as I tell you,” commanded Tom fero¬ 
ciously. “Mind you, Wattles, you and that pal of 
yours there may be able to get the best of me when 
I’m not looking for it, but I can lick either one or 
both of you in a fair scrap. Here, lay this across and 
sit on the edge of it.” 

“Yes, sir. And I’m quite certain you’d be a match 
for us both, Mister Tom, and no mistake.” 

“I’ll say so,” agreed Tom, mollified. “Just the same, 
Wattles, I’ve got to hand it to you for turning a neat 
trick. I suppose, though, Loring planned that, eh?” 

“No, sir,” replied Wattles modestly. “Mister Lor¬ 
ing just said I was to bring you back. Beyond that, 
sir, I was obliged to proceed quite on my own. Sorry, 
sir, that the exigency of the occasion demanded a cer¬ 
tain amount of coercion.” 

“Coercion! Is that what you call it, Wattles ? Man, 
you’re a scream!” 

“Should I have said compulsion?” asked Wattles 
anxiously. 

“I’ll say you should!” Tom’s spirits were rising 
rapidly. Of course, he hadn’t meant to return to Wynd- 
ham; hadn’t wanted to, indeed; but the matter had 
been taken out of his hands, and, now that the die 
203 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


was cast, he would make the best of it. And, sitting 
there snuggled under the warm rug, with the old car 
hitting on all six, with the nipping air stinging his 
face, he listened to Wattles’s explanation of the events 
leading up to his present situation and felt that the 
best was mighty good! 




CHAPTER XVIII 
A NEW PLAY IS TRIED OUT 
LIF didn’t take Walter Treat into his confi¬ 



dence that night. Not that he didn’t thor 


oughly trust Walt’s discretion, but there was 
no sense in taking chances. He wanted to stay awake, 
and listen for sounds outside or in the Hall that would 
announce Toni’s surreptitious return; for Loring’s ab¬ 
solute confidence in Wattles’s powers of persuasion had 
ultimately convinced Clif that Tom would return; but 
after a heroic effort lasting some fifteen or twenty 
minutes he had to give it up, and when Tom’s for¬ 
tunes again engrossed his mind, it was twenty-two 
minutes past seven on Friday morning. Clif made a 
record toilet, and was on his way to Number 34 before 
Walter was more than half dressed. Billy Desmond 
was alone in the room when Clif got there, but a mere 
glance at Tom’s tumbled bed told the story. 

“All right?” whispered Clif hoarsely. 

“Guess so”, Billy chuckled. “He’s gone to wash. 
All I know is that he was in bed when I woke up, and 
I had the dickens of a time getting him out. He’s 
still half asleep.” 

Tom staggered in a moment later, looking rather 
haggard, and very, very sleepy. His greeting to Clif 
was a wan smile, but while he struggled into his clothes 


205 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


and Clif kept an anxious eye on his watch, he narrated 
his adventures briefly, yawning cavernously the while. 
“We got here about five minutes to twelve and stopped 
the car over on Stoddard Street,” he concluded. “Then 
Wattles and I went up the lane a ways, and headed 
for East. Wattles had my bag. I’d forgotten about 
the brook, and it was pretty dark, and so Wattles 
stepped right into it. Luckily the bag got away from 
him and landed on the bank. I helped him out, and 
we got in Loring’s window, and I stuck the bag in 
his closet and came on up here.” 

“And no one saw you?” asked Clif anxiously. 

“I don’t—” Tom yawned widely—“think so.” 

“Fool’s luck,” commented Billy, slipping into his 
coat, and heading for the door. “That’s all I’ve got 
to say!” 

“Go roll your hoop,” said Tom without rancor. 

“Just the same, Tom, you know you were an ab¬ 
solute dumbbell, now don’t you?” demanded Clif, as 
he held the other’s jacket and tried to hurry him into 
it. 

“I guess so. I don’t know. How much time we 
got?” 

“Minute and a quarter.” 

“Fine. I’ve made it in fifty seconds flat. Come on!” 

That afternoon Loring did not attend practice. In¬ 
stead, he and Tom sat at opposite sides of the table 
in Loring’s room and Tom, alternately despairing and 
hopeful, worked on that theme. Loring gave no*aid 
in the actual writing, nor even in the composition, but 
206 




A NEW PLAT IS TRIED OUT 


he did make helpful suggestions when Tom faltered, 
and he did suggest numerous changes in spelling. It 
was close to five o’clock when the minimum of five 
hundred words was finally attained—with one word to 
spare, according to Tom’s sixth count—and Tom hur¬ 
ried across to West and delivered the result to Mr. 
Wyatt. “Alick” glanced briefly at the three pages. 
Then: 

“Did you have any help on this?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir. If I hadn’t I’d never have got it written!” 

“How much help, Kemble, and from whom?” 

“Loring Deane, sir. I wrote it all myself. He 
didn’t tell me what to say, but he kept after me until 
I’d done it, and he sort of suggested things to—to 
write about.” 

“In your opinion then, it represents your efforts, 
and not Deane’s?” 

“Yes, sir! And, Mr. Wyatt, it was some effort!” 

“Alick’s” customary gravity cracked just a little. 
“Well, all right, my boy. I’ll let you be the judge. 
Now see if you can’t come to class a lot better pre¬ 
pared than you have been. And about that paragraph 
structure business, Kemble. When do you want to 
make up on that? This evening all right for you?” 

“Oh, gosh, Mr. Wyatt! Give me another day, 
won’t you? I haven’t had time to study that at all, 
sir!” 

“If you’d kept up with the course, Kemble, you 
wouldn’t have to study it now. Isn’t that so ?” 

“Yes, sir,” agreed Tom sadly. 

207 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Yes, and you’d be playing football to-day, too. 
You know, Kemble, I told you when you first came that 
I meant to teach you English. Remember? I might 
have turned you down, and with good reason, in 
which case you wouldn’t be here to-day. But I 
stretched a point and passed you, giving you fair 
warning, though, that I meant to ride you hard, my 
boy. You can’t truthfully say that I didn’t warn you 
of what was coming to you, can you?” 

“No, sir, I understood. And I started out all right, 
too, didn’t I, Mr. Wyatt? Wasn’t I doing pretty well 
until—until just lately?” 

“You’ve never done ‘pretty well,’ Kemble, but you 
did show me for a while that you were trying, and as 
long as I knew that I didn’t turn the screws. But 
about two weeks ago you stopped trying. I warned 
you several times, but you appeared to think I didn’t 
mean it.” 

“I got sort of busy about football, Mr. Wyatt. They 
made me captain of the Scrub, and there was a good 
deal to—think about, and—” 

“Yes, I know all that. Football is a fine game, 
Kemble, and I’ve never said a word against it. But 
football isn’t what you came here for. At least, I hope 
it isn’t. In any case, it isn’t what your parents sent 
you to Wyndham to learn, and the sooner you realize 
that the better for you. I’ll give you until Monday 
on that examination, but you must be prepared then. 
Come to me here at seven Monday evening, and I’ll 
hear you.” 


208 




A NEW PLAY IS TRIED OUT 


“Monday?” exclaimed Tom relievedly. “Yes, sir. 
Thank you, Mr. Wyatt. IT 1 have it Monday all right! 
You see if I don’t!” 

“You’ll see if you don’t,” responded the instructor 
grimly. 

By not watching the Scrub Team practice that after¬ 
noon Loring missed something that would have inter¬ 
ested him. The First called off the scrimmage, choos¬ 
ing to spend the time in perfecting certain plays to be 
used on the morrow against Toll’s, and so Mr. Bab¬ 
cock, following “G. G.’s” example, devoted much of 
the session to a general preparation for the Minster 
High School game. But he also found time to try out 
two of Loring^s plays, one of them the forward-pass 
strategy that had aroused Tom’s interest. He had no 
intention of using them against Minster, and so the 
plays did not get beyond the first stage of development. 
They were explained and the players were placed in 
their correct positions, and then, several times at a 
walk and several times at full speed, they were enacted 
against an opposing line of ten substitutes. The for¬ 
ward-pass play was rather intricate at first, or seemed 
so, and perhaps it was just as well that Loring wasn’t 
there to watch the players get tangled up. Their ef¬ 
forts would doubtless have made him exceedingly nerv¬ 
ous! But the last time that Heard tossed the ball 
back to Clif and Clif swept it forward down the field 
the performance went with a very fair degree of snap 
and smoothness. What Mr. Babcock’s verdict on the 
play was did not appear. The second play, though, 
209 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


held forth small promise, and Clif didn't have to await 
“Cocky's" judgment to know that it would not be 
added to the Scrub’s equipment. 

Loring, learning from Clif that the forward-pass 
play had been experimented with, looked for some 
word from Mr. Babcock, but none came that evening, 
nor the next day. In fact, the following week was 
well along before Loring heard again from the Scrub 
coach. That Friday evening was largely spent by 
Loring and Clif in trying to get Tom to acknowledge 
that he had been several sorts of an idiot and that he 
owed them the deepest gratitude for rescuing him from 
a ruinous position. Tom, however, preferred to argue 
about it. At heart, he knew that he had acted fool¬ 
ishly, and was tremendously grateful, but he didn’t 
intend to say so in so many words. The best they 
could get from him was the acknowledgment that, now 
that he was back, he was glad of it, and that it was 
decent of them to take so much trouble about him. He 
tried to get Loring—and, afterwards, Wattles—to tell 
him how much the kidnaping expedition had cost so 
that he could pay back the money. But Loring 
wouldn't tell, and Wattles’s countenance was absolutley 
vacant when he was questioned on the subject. He 
couldn't seem to remember a thing! In the end Tom 
gave up in despair and nursed a mild grouch for some 
minutes. It was dissipated, however, when Loring got 
Wattles to tell about falling into the brook. Not that 
Wattles was intentionally humorous. Quite the con¬ 
trary. That was what made it so funny. 

210 




A NEW PLAY IS TRIED OUT 


The First Team departed for Toll’s Academy at 
eleven-thirty the next forenoon, twenty-eight strong. 
The game would be the last real test before Wolcott 
was encountered, and so the result was awaited with 
a good deal of interest. Wolcott had defeated Toll’s 
by 26 to 9 and Coach Otis’s warriors hoped to at least 
equal that creditable performance. The students sent 
the team off with confident and vociferous cheers be¬ 
fore they piled into dining hall for an early dinner 
that would permit them to follow at one o’clock. Of 
course not all the fellows made the trip, and amongst 
the half-hundred or so who remained at Wyndham, 
were, besides the Scrub Team members, Tom and 
Loring. 

Tom had somewhat testily declared his intention of 
spending the afternoon in study, but Loring and Clif 
had only grinned. The picture of Tom occupied in the 
pursuit of knowledge while the Fighting Scrub battled 
with an enemy somehow lacked distinctness! Anyhow, 
Tom didn’t spend that afternoon in Number 34 West. 
He occupied Wattles’s stool beside Loring’s chair, 
which had been wheeled to the corner of the grand 
stand, and he and Wattles, the latter slightly in the 
background, watched proceedings with about equal in¬ 
terest. It was a good game, a hard, fast, close contest 
that wasn’t decided until, in the fourth period, while 
the small audience held its collective breath, Hoppin, 
sent in for the purpose, added a goal to the Scrub’s 
second touchdown. Scrub had set out with the inten¬ 
tion of beating Minster High as thoroughly as the 
211 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


First had, but when the second quarter had ended with 
the score Minster High 6, Wyndham Scrub 6, that 
laudable ambition had been modified. The Scrub con¬ 
cluded on second thought to be satisfied with any sort 
of a victory! 

Jimmy Ames, back once more on the team, contribu¬ 
ted a good share toward the Scrub’s triumph, for it 
was Jimmy who found a ball that no one seemed to 
have any interest in at the moment, and, tucking it 
into the crook of an elbow, sped thirty-eight yards 
with it, and placed it three streaks distant from the 
Minster goal-line. Johnny Thayer advanced it six and 
Lou Stiles two yards. Then Heard, officiating in 
Tom’s former position, got almost free outside tackle 
on the right, and was piled up on the one yard, and 
from there, although he had to make three tries, 
Johnny took it across. Sim Jackson fumbled a poor 
pass from “Babe,” and there was no goal. That was 
in the first period. Minster scored her six points in 
the second, aided by a fumble by Sim and a long 
forward-pass that swept the visitors from just past 
midfield to Scrub’s twenty-six yards. Twice Minster 
fooled the defenders by the antiquated fullback run 
from kicking position play, and finally tossed the pig¬ 
skin across the center for a twelve yard gain and a 
touchdown. Minster, though, had even poorer luck 
than the Scrub when it came to the try-for-point, for 
the ball eluded the kicker entirely and rolled back to 
the twenty yards before it was recovered. A subse¬ 
quent desperate attempt to run it back to the line was 
212 




A NEW PLAY IS TRIED OUT 


upset—as was the runner—by Clif, who made what 
was possibly the one perfect tackle of his football 
career to date. 

Minster’s second score followed closely on the be¬ 
ginning of the second half, and this time a blocked 
punt gave her her chance. Johnny Thayer got the ball 
away nicely enough, but in some manner a Minster for¬ 
ward leaked through “Babe/’ and his nose got squarely 
in the path of the ball. There was no question about 
that, for the evidence was prominent all during the 
rest of the battle! The ball rebounded, probably in 
great astonishment, and was secured by a Minster 
guard on Scrub’s seventeen yards. From there the 
visitors took it by short and certain plunges across the 
line in just eight plays, and, although the pass was 
good this time, and although the Minster quarter had 
plenty of time to kick, the pigskin, perhaps still un¬ 
nerved by its recent experience, went wide of the goal. 
So when, in the middle of the final period, Clif, taking 
a forward-pass from Thayer on Minster’s twenty-six 
yards, scampered with it across the last trampled white 
mark, victory depended on the try-for-point. And 
when “Hop” took Stiles’s place and sent the “old 
melon” fair and true across the bar the small contin¬ 
gent of Wyndhamites made enough noise for a whole 
cheering section! 

News of the Wyndham-Toll’s game didn’t reach the 
school until just before supper time, but when it came 
it was wonderful! Wyndham 33, Toll’s 6! The Dark 
Blue had bettered Wolcott’s score by ten points! It had 
213 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


scored one more touchdown than Wolcott and been 
scored against less! Wyndham went in to supper 
in a joyous and rather noisy state. And later in the 
evening, when the First came rolling up the driveway 
in the two big busses that had taken them back and 
forth over the road, it was given a welcome worthy 
of a triumphant Caesar. 




CHAPTER XIX 
BAD NEWS 


I N Loring’s room that Sunday morning the steam 
radiator was hissing softly, perhaps at the chill, 
damp current of air blowing in on it from the 
partly opened window, the floor was liberally strewn 
with pages, and sections of three Sunday papers and 
three youths, one for each paper, sat or sprawled about 
in lazy comfort. Wattles, just a trifle more proper and 
solemn than on week-days, with his best dark suit on, 
and his black derby immaculately brushed, had left a 
moment before for the village, a prayer-book and 
hymnal firmly clutched in one hand. Wattles always 
left early for church, walked slowly, and with dignity, 
and, having reached the small edifice at the far end of 
the village, spent a pleasant quarter of an hour watch¬ 
ing the arrival of the other members of the congrega¬ 
tion. After his departure Tom rescued the comic sup¬ 
plement from beside his chair, and gave it his atten¬ 
tion. So long as Wattles, redolent of sabbatical de¬ 
corum, had been there he had not had the courage to 
show interest in it. He felt that Wattles would 
strongly, if silently, disapprove; and since the incident 
at Danbury Tom had entertained for Wattles a vast 
respect. His enjoyment of the highly colored pages 
was, though, speedily interrupted by Clif. 

215 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


‘‘Did you see what Yale did to the Army, Tom? ,, 

“No, I wasn't able to get over to New Haven.” 

“Weren’t you, really? Well, Yale piled up 31 to 
Army’s 10.” 

“I was just reading it,” said Loring, coming into 
view from behind his paper. “Yale’s finally got a 
winning team, I think.” 

“That’s what you hear every year,” said Clif. “Then 
it doesn’t come off! Still, she must be a heap better 
this year to run up 31 against Army. Brown didn’t 
do so badly, either.” 

“What did she do?” inquired Tom innocently. 
“Beat Vassar?” 

“She beat St. Bonaventure, 19 to o, and that’s—” 

“Saint Who? What high school’s that, Clif?” 

“Shut up! It’s the ‘high school’ that scored against 
Cornell two or three weeks ago, and a team that can 
do that—” 

“Where do you get that stuff? Everybody scores on 
Cornell. It’s quite the proper thing to do this year. 
Colgate did it, and Williams, and now Dartmouth.” 

“Yes, and what was Cornell doing while Dartmouth 
made a little old seven points?” 

“That’s what I was wondering,” replied Tom. 
“Maybe she was having afternoon tea, eh?” 

“Seems to me,” laughed Loring, “you chaps are 
mightily interested in games that don’t mean much to 
you. What about Wolcott’s showing against River¬ 
side Military? It doesn’t make our score against 
Toll’s look so fine, eh?” 


216 



BAB NEWS 


“I guess Riverside’s pretty weak,” said Tom. 
“What’s she done this season, anyway?” 

“I don’t know much about her,” answered Loring, 
“but 41 to o is an awful score! It looks as if Wolcott 
might still have an edge on us, Tom. What I don’t 
understand, though, is about that fellow Grosfawk. 
He played only part of the time yesterday, and nothing 
is said about him. I thought he was Wolcott’s par¬ 
ticular wonder, and that they were building a bunch 
of plays around him.” 

“It is sort of queer,” said Tom. “The way they tell 
it here, Grosfawk was the whole thing last year when 
they played us. This year you don’t hear anything 
about him.” 

“He’s only a substitute, as I figure it,” remarked 
Clif. “You see him getting in now and then, but 
he’s never in the first line-up.” 

“Maybe it’s strategy,” Tom offered. “Maybe they’re 
trying to make us think he’s not much so we won’t 
worry about him. Then they’ll start him, and he will 
run rings around us, like last year.” 

“Well, I suppose Mr. Otis knows what’s doing,” 
said Loring. “Mr. Hilliard, and the fellows who went 
over yesterday to see Wolcott play, have probably 
brought back some dope.” 

“ ‘Pinky’ is all right,” observed Tom, “but it seems 
to me that ‘G. G.’ ought to have gone himself. By the 
way, they say he didn’t come back to school.” 

“Who, Pinky? I saw him at prayers this morning,” 
said Clif. 


217 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“No, you dumbbell, ‘G. G.’ Billy said he was feel¬ 
ing rotten about the time the game was over, and they 
stopped at a drug store afterwards and ‘G. G.’ got 
dosed up there, and then went on home. Back to¬ 
morrow, I suppose. Say, how badly was Fargo hurt? 
Anyone know ?” 

“You hear all sorts of yarns,” said Clif. “Guy 
Owens, the yellow haired fellow who helps manage, 
said that Fargo would be laid up most of the week. 
Then I heard that he got hurt in the same leg last 
year, and that the doctor told him he oughtn’t to play 
any more.” 

“Imagine ‘Big Bill’ paying any attention to that,” 
chuckled Tom. “Well, we won’t need him next Sat¬ 
urday, I suppose. This High Point game is a cinch, 
they say. Guess he will be right there on both feet the 
week after!” 

“From what I get about yesterday’s merry little 
fracas, it was a regular humdinger,” said Clif. “I’d 
like to have seen it. Toll’s roughed it up considerable. 
One of her fellows was put out by the referee, they 
say.” 

“Sure it wasn’t the umpire?” asked Tom mildly. 

“Well, umpire then. Anyway, our bunch got pretty 
well bunged up. Raiford’s wearing plaster all over 
his face to-day.” 

“Must be an improvement,” said Tom. “I never 
did like Raiford’s face.” 

Mr. Otis was not back the next day when the First 
got out for practice and Mr. Hilliard, his assistant, took 
218 




BAD NEWS 


charge. There was no scrimmage with the Scrub, for 
the First, while it had run up a big score against its 
adversary on Saturday, had found plenty of opposi¬ 
tion, and not a few of the players were nursing wounds. 
“Big Bill” Fargo didn’t even put in an appearance, al¬ 
though most of the temporary invalids sat on the bench 
or, draped in their blankets, followed the drill. The 
Scrub, left to its own devices, took up that new for¬ 
ward-pass play and another, of Mr. Babcock’s devising, 
and worked at them until they were running quite 
smoothly. Of course, however, as Loring realized, the 
forward-pass play couldn’t be fairly judged until it 
had been tried out in actual playing. The opposition 
put up by the Scrub Team substitutes, with “Cocky” 
at left guard to make up the eleven, provided no real 
test for the play. 

That evening, after spending the whole afternoon 
groaning and writhing in Number 34, Tom faced Mr. 
Wyatt across that well-remembered desk and somehow 
floundered through an examination. Mr. Wyatt dis¬ 
played no enthusiasm over the performance, but he 
did say, somewhat wearily, at the end: “All right, 
Kemble. I haven’t the heart to say what I ought 
to. Please go before I give way to unmanly emo¬ 
tion !” 

“Yes, sir,” said Tom, “Thanks!” 

Deserted by his chums—for Clif, too, had failed to 
show up after supper—Loring sat in his chair with the 
chess-board before him. He had started to work out 
a problem, but had not got far with it. Another prob- 
219 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


lem, having nothing to do with chess, had substituted 
itself, and for a long while Loring sat and tapped the 
black queen against the edge of the board, and stared 
intently at nothing. Then, he set the board aside and 
propelled the chair across to the door and through it, 
and made his slow way around to West Hall. “Babe” 
Ridgway happened along and pushed him the last part 
of his journey, depositing him by request in the read¬ 
ing room. Loring was seeking something he was not 
at all certain existed in the reading room, and it took 
him several minutes, and much dexterous filling and 
backing between chairs and tables and shelves—for¬ 
tunately the room was not well occupied—to discover 
that it did exist. Having secured it, he made out a 
slip with the date and his name, and put it in the clip 
beside the wide, shallow shelf. Then, with the issues 
of the daily paper published at the nearest metropolis 
of the state from the middle of September to last Sat¬ 
urday in front of him, he returned to his room. To 
his right as he left the reading room, beyond the library, 
a considerable throng of fellows were congregated 
around the recreation room doorway, and some sub¬ 
ject of more than ordinary interest appeared to en¬ 
gross them, for every one seemed to be talking at once 
and there was quite an atmosphere of excitement down 
there. But, although mildly curious, Loring preferred 
not to venture into the crowd with his chair, and so 
made his way back to East Hall. Once there, he de¬ 
voted the rest of the time before study hour, and much 
time thereafter to a careful and thoughtful perusal 
220 




BAB NEWS 


of the many papers he had brought back with him; 
or, to be more exact, to certain items in those 
papers. 

Tom, coming downstairs after that enervating ex¬ 
perience in Mr. Wyatt’s study, saw the crowd at the 
end of the corridor, and joined it as fast as he could. 
An acquaintance named Bumstead, a slight, sandy 
haired youth, who wore big, round spectacles, and 
whom Tom disliked cordially, presented himself as the 
nearest source of information. Bumstead turned in¬ 
credulous, but joyous eyes on the inquirer. 

“Say, haven’t you heard?” he exclaimed almost 
shrilly. “Gee, where have you been?” 

“Picking daisies,” replied Tom impatiently. “Spill 
it!” 

“Otis is sick, and can’t come back the rest of the 
season! He’s got the 'flu’! They just got word from 
him.” 

“Roll your hoop!” said Tom incredulously. “Who 
says so?” 

“Gee, it’s true! Ask any one. Faculty’s called a 
meeting of the Athletic Committee, too. This evening. 
In ‘Pinky’s’ room. Ask any one.” 

“If ‘G. G.’s’ so blamed sick how could he write and 
tell about it?” demanded Tom witheringly. “Of 
course, I’m not saying he hasn’t got the ‘flu’; lots of 
folks have it; but it’s crazy to say he isn’t coming 
back.” 

“Maybe he didn’t write himself,” said Bumstead. 
“Maybe it was the doctor or some one. Anyway—” 
221 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


But Tom had caught sight of Joe Whitemill, of the 
First Team, and he plowed his way through to him. 

*‘What’s it all about, Whitemill ?” he asked anxiously. 
“Is ‘G. G.’ really out of it?” 

“Eh? Oh, hello, Kemble. Yes, that’s the way we 
get it. He’s down with influenza, and the doctor says 
he won’t be able to do any more coaching this season. 
I don’t know where the story came from, though. 
Every one has it, but no one knows where it started. 
For my part—” 

“It’s straight goods,” interrupted Jimmy Ames, ap¬ 
pearing at Tom’s side. “Mr. Connover told Dave 
Lothrop and Dave spilled it a few minutes ago. Fac¬ 
ulty’s sent word to the Committee to get busy, and 
there’s going to be a meeting in a few minutes.” 

“But, Great Heck!” exclaimed Tom. “What—what 
—why, that’ll play the very dickens, won’t it ?” 

Whitemill grinned, but the grin held no humor. 
“Oh, no, not at all! Swapping coaches ten days before 
the big game is a mere trifle, Kemble. It’s easy when 
you—” 

“There won’t be any swapping,” predicted Jimmy. 
“Where’d we get a new coach now? Anyway, he 
wouldn’t know the team, and he’d be worse than none. 
‘Pinky’ will take Otis’s place, of course.” 

“That’s so,” said Tom. “Well—but, heck, fellows, 
it’s going to make a difference! How does ‘Pinky’ 
know what Otis was going to do? Or does he know?” 

“Search me,” said Whitemill despondently. “I sup¬ 
pose they’ve talked things over a good deal, though. 

222 




BAD NEWS 


Anyway, we’ll pull through somehow. Hang it, we’ll 
beat that bunch without any coach at all if we have 
to!” 

“Spoken like a hero!” commented Jimmy Ames. 
“Just the same, if I had anything up on the Wolcott 
game I’d begin to hedge just about now, old dear. 
Say, Dave’s fit to be tied, fellows. He was talking 
about canceling the game, and all that stuff a few min¬ 
utes ago up in ‘Swede’s’ room.” 

“Cancel the game!” growled Whitemill. “I’ll say 
not! That would be a swell thing to do! Gosh, I’d 
rather get licked to smithereens than not play at all! 
Besides, why, thunder, Jimmy, you can’t crawl out of 
a game just because you’ve lost your coach! What’s 
the matter with Dave, anyway?” 

“Oh, he was just getting rid of some of his peeve, 
I suppose,” said Jimmy. “Just talking to relieve his 
mind. I don’t blame him, though, for being a mite 
upset. Gosh, he’s captain, and if this thing’s as bad 
as they say it is—” 

“There’s the gong,” broke in Tom. “A grand lot 
of studying we’ll do to-night! Say, where’s ‘Pinky’? 
Any one seen him? Why doesn’t some one ask him 
what the real facts are ?” 

“You do it,” suggested Whitemill. “He’s probably 
in just the right temper to answer fool questions.” 

“Fool questions be blowed!” called Tom after the 
halfback’s retreating form. “How come we fellows 
haven’t some right to know what’s going on, you big 
cheese?” 


223 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Just what is it you’d like to know?” inquired a 
voice at Tom’s back. Tom, startled, turned to find Mr. 
Hilliard facing* him soberly from the foot of the 
stairs. Tom swallowed. Then, conscious of the sud¬ 
den silence that had fallen about him, he recovered his 
assurance. 

“About Mr. Otis, sir,” he answered. “They say he’s 
sick and won’t be able to come back all season. I— 
we’d like to know if that’s true.” 

“Quite true, Kemble,” replied “Pinky” gravely. 
“Mr. Otis has contracted influenza, and, so his doctor 
writes us, is a very sick man. Even if he recovers 
within the customary time he will not be in condition 
to continue his work here with the Team. It is a 
very unfortunate happening, both for Mr. Otis and 
for the School, but we must all make the best of it. 
The gong has rung, fellows.” 




CHAPTER XX 
‘COCKY ,, MAKES A CALL 


D URING the rest of that evening, and most 
of the following day a new rumor was to be 
met at every corner. Excitement was fol¬ 
lowed by consternation as the school came to a fuller 
realization of the gravity of the catastrophe. A new 
coach could be found to direct the Team’s course for 
the rest of the way, but he would be handicapped from 
the start by a lack of knowledge both of the men he 
was to handle, and of the foundation already con¬ 
structed by his predecessor. He might, too, fail to 
command the confidence of the players. The report 
that Mr. Hilliard was to take charge met with little 
enthusiasm. “Pinky” doubtless possessed the advant¬ 
age of Mr. Otis’s confidence, and he knew the ground, 
but few of the First Team credited him with the quali¬ 
ties required of a successful coach. Oddly enough, the 
solution of the quandary arrived at by the Athletic 
Committee Tuesday occurred to few beforehand. The 
Committee’s decision was awaited impatiently. The 
rumored meeting did not take place Monday evening, 
and until after dinner on Tuesday the school had to 
be satisfied with speculation. Then, at last, the news 
Was out. 


225 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Mr. Babcock would succeed Mr. Otis as First Team 
Coach. Mr. Hilliard would continue as Assistant 
Coach. Mr. Connover would take over the Second 
Team. 

Wyndham School blinked its eyes and wondered 
why it hadn’t thought of “Cocky”! Why, “Cocky” 
was just the ticket! Oh, anyhow, he was lots better 
than a stranger who wouldn’t know anything about 
anything! On the whole, the decision met with hearty 
approval. Even those who knew little of the practical 
side of football, but had encountered Mr. Babcock in 
his role of Physical Director felt certain that he pos¬ 
sessed to a degree the stern, disciplinary qualities as¬ 
sociated by them with the gridiron martinet. Those 
who had ever really tried Mr. Babcock’s patience dur- 
ing gymnasium instruction gave it as their studied 
opinion that “ ‘Cocky’ was a hard-boiled egg, and 
ought to make a corking coach for the First!” Per¬ 
haps there were some on the First who didn’t wholly 
approve of the Football Committee’s selection, but they 
were few in number and were not talking for publica¬ 
tion. It remained for the Scrub Team to utter the 
only disapproving note. Scrub protested loudly that 
it wouldn’t stand for it! What was the idea, snatching 
its coach like that? Didn’t it have any rights? And 
what in the dickens did “Steve” Connover, the base¬ 
ball coach, know about football? What was to be¬ 
come of the Scrub Team, anyway? 

This, of course, was a selfish view of affairs, one 
which took no thought of “the greatest good to the 
226 



“COCKY” MAKES A CALL 


greatest number” and all that sort of thing, and so it 
found little sympathy. And after its first burst of 
indignation the Scrub relapsed into grumbles and ac¬ 
cepted the inevitable—and “Steve.” “Steve” was 
rather a surprise, too. He proved in short order that, 
while he might be a specialist in baseball, and not 
know everything there was to know about the gridiron 
game, he was quite competent to see the Scrub Team 
through the rest of its season. And he made rather a 
hit with the fellows at the outset by not “pulling a 
line of guff,” as “Wink” Coles elegantly expressed it, 
about being unfamiliar with the duties and relying on 
them all to help him. No, “Steve” didn’t ask any as¬ 
sistance. He just took hold on Tuesday afternoon at 
twenty minutes to four, and gave each and every one a 
good, hard “six licks at the dummy,” not hesitating to 
tell them how rotten they were—most of them—nor 
being at a loss for improving instructions. They re¬ 
sented his criticism more because it seemed to reflect 
on “Cocky” than for more personal reasons, but they 
didn’t harbor resentment long. “Steve” kept them too 
busy, maybe. They trotted over and tried to take a 
fall out of the First at four-thirty, and didn’t do so 
badly, for the First still lacked the services of Fargo, 
and one or two other lesser lights, and, besides, ap¬ 
peared to be suffering slightly from unsettled nerves. 
The Scrub sent Johnny Thayer across the big team’s 
goal in the second half of the game, and was scored 
on thrice by the opponent. 

Fargo sat on the bench, his left knee enormously 
227 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


bandaged and padded, and scowled darkly on the world. 
Report had it that the fullback would be all ready to 
play in Saturday’s game if needed. As Saturday’s con¬ 
test, the next to the last on the Wyndham schedule, 
was with High Point School, he very likely would not 
be needed, for High Point was not a strong aggrega¬ 
tion, and had been selected for that reason. To-day 
“Swede” Hanbury worked at fullback most of the 
time, being relieved by Massingham and Badger toward 
the last. There was not much choice evident, although 
Hanbury possessed the advantage over his competitors 
of being a good kicker. Scrub, still resentful over the 
loss of its coach, and reminded of the fact by the sight 
of “Cocky” devoting his energies to the First, played 
a bit more savagely this afternoon and neither asked 
nor gave mercy. But the First was undoubtedly suf¬ 
fering from an inferiority complex and offered almost 
nothing in the way of reprisal. A 1 Greene and Billy 
Desmond, between whom a friendly feud had existed 
all season, ended the game with the honors all Al’s for 
the first time. 

It was Billy who, in response to Tom’s thirst for 
information, voiced the verdict of the First Wednes¬ 
day evening. “Why,” said Billy in the privacy of 
Number 34, accommodating his body with muffled 
groans to the peculiarities of the couch, “ ‘Cocky’s’ all 
right, Tom. He goes at it differently from Otis, but he 
seems to know what he’s doing and why he’s doing it. 
And he doesn’t mind you knowing, either. You see, 
‘G. G.’ never would let any one in on his plans. ‘G. G.’ 
228 




“COCKY” MAKES A CALL 


was the Big Cheese, and you weren’t supposed to ask 
questions or want to know how come. Now ‘Cocky’ 
let’s every one in on things. Maybe it doesn’t make 
us play any better, but it let’s us think we’re more than 
just so many machines without anything above the 
boilers! He’s having us up in the rowing room before 
practice to talk things over. Of course, he does most 
of the talking—he and Dave, and sometimes Stoddard 
—but we like it.” 

“You’d better,” said Tom. “ ‘Cocky’s’ a grand 
coach, and a sight better than you guys deserve. Heck, 
he knows more real inside football than ‘G. G.’ ever 
thought of!” 

“Quit your kidding,” growled Billy. “He’s all right, 
just as I told you, but he isn’t the coach ‘G. G.’ is. 
And any one casting asparagus on ‘G. G.’ will have me 
on his neck.” 

“Oh, well, he’s all right,” acknowledged Tom. “Say, 
what do they hear about him, Billy?” 

“Otis? Nothing except that he’s getting along all 
right so far. I guess he’s just got a thundering fine 
case of the ‘flu,’ and you can be beastly sick with it, and 
not worry your doc a mite. I know. I had it.” 

When Mr. Babcock went to the First Team he took 
Loring’s play with him, and on Wednesday evening 
he dropped in at Loring’s room after supper and told 
him so. “It’s promising,” he declared, “and I mean 
to make use of it, Deane, if I can get the fellows to 
make it go as it should. It’s got to be pulled off at the 
right moment, under the right conditions.” He went 
229 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


quite exhaustively into that. “And,” he continued, 
“it’s like any play in which so many are involved: you 
can’t blunder it. If every man isn’t just where he 
should be at the proper instant it will fizzle badly. 
I’m not going to try it against High Point because, if 
it is a find, I want to spring it fresh against Wolcott. 
And Wolcott may have some one looking on here Sat¬ 
urday; looking for us to try out some eleventh hour 
stunt like that. I’ve told the Scrub to keep away from 
it. Jackson wanted to use it next Saturday against 
the Wolcott Scrub, but that wouldn’t do.” 

“Mr. Babcock,” asked Loring, “do you know why 
Wolcott hasn’t used Grosfawk more this season?” 

“No, I don’t. That’s puzzled me a little, too. I 
haven’t seen his name more than twice all the fall, and 
last year he looked like a real find. I presume Mr. 
Otis had some information on Grosfawk, but I don’t 
know a thing. Anyhow, we’ve laid our lines for that 
chap, and he will be watched pretty closely. But Wol¬ 
cott hasn’t showed much in the overhead game so far, 
and maybe she’s intending to use it only as a last 
resort.” 

“She hasn’t shown it in public, sir,” said Loring, 
“but she’s practiced forward-passing ever since she 
started work.” 

Mr. Babcock looked interested. “Is that so? How 
did you learn that, Deane ?” 

Loring indicated a binder filled with newspapers that 
lay on a chair nearby. “I’ve been reading the Wolcott 
football stuff in the papers, sir. Their correspondent 
230 




“COCKY” MAKES A CALL 


is pretty close-mouthed, but he lets something out now 
and then. I’ve been all through the papers from the 
seventeenth of September to yesterday, and I’ve learned 
two or three rather interesting things, Mr. Babcock. 
One is that Wolcott’s been using the forward-pass in 
practice, although in outside games she’s made only 
about fourteen passes in all, an average of a little over 
two to a game. But the important thing, sir, is that 
out of those fourteen ten were successful. That’s an 
unusual average, isn’t it?” 

“Decidedly! What were they, Deane, long or 
short?” 

“Both, apparently. I couldn’t always make out which 
they were. But they went all right in nearly every 
case, and that’s something to think about, Mr. Bab¬ 
cock. 

“It’s something to think a whole lot about,” was the 
answer. “Did Grosfawk figure in any of those plays?” 

“Not one, sir.” 

“Cocky” stared thoughtfully at Loring and Loring 
looked thoughtfully back at him. Finally: “Hm,” said 
the instructor. “What do you make of that? Do you 
suppose Grosfawk petered out this year? He’s rather 
a youngster, I believe, and it may be he couldn’t find 
himself.” 

“What I think, sir, is that he got hurt, hurt badly 
enough to keep him from hard work.” Loring took a 
slip of paper from his leather wallet. “Grosfawk’s 
name appears eight times in the stories written for 
the paper by the Wolcott correspondent up to October 
231 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Fifth. After that it doesn’t appear at all. The Fifth 
of October was Friday, and Wolcott played Nelson 
the next day. Wolcott won by 23 to 6, or something 
like that. It was a slow game and Wolcott used a 
whole string of substitutes in the last half. But she 
didn’t use Grosfawk. Grosfawk was spoken of in the 
paper as having taken part in practice on Thursday. 
Now I think something happened either Thursday or 
Friday. Either he got hurt or he got in wrong with 
the faculty over studies. Up to that Fifth of October, 
the fellow who writes the stuff for the paper was 
always mentioning him. Once he spoke of him as 
‘Wolcott’s spectacular end,’ and another time as ‘the 
speedy runner who grabbed last year’s game from 
Wyndham,’ or something like that. Then he drops 
him entirely!” 

“All that is food for thought,” replied Mr. Babcock, 
smiling. “I dare say that you’ve figured it correctly, 
Deane, but, just for the sake of argument, what about 
this theory? Suppose they’ve kept on using Grosfawk 
in practice and have carefully kept his name out of the 
papers with the idea of letting us think he isn’t to be 
bothered about. You know he has played occasionally.” 

“Mighty little, sir. Maybe five times, and then only 
for a few minutes, probably.” 

“Still—” 

“Besides, sir,” interrupted Loring eagerly, “if Wol¬ 
cott wanted us to think that Grosfawk was—was elimi¬ 
nated she would have used more certain methods, don’t 
you think? Wouldn’t she have let the report get out 
232 




“COCKY” MAKES A CALL 


that he had been injured or that he was in Dutch with 
the Office or—or something? See what I mean, sir? 
She couldn’t be certain that we’d notice his not playing.” 

‘‘Yes, probably she would have,’’ acknowledged the 
other. “Well, granting your idea’s the right one, 
Deane, who do you take it is to get Grosfawk’s job at 
catching passes and getting off with them? Or who 
has got it already?” 

Loring shook his head. “That’s what I can’t make 
out, sir. They’ve been building up a forward-passing 
game in secret, but the reports from there don’t actually 
say so. You’ve got to read between the lines. In the 
outside games five players have taken passes, and only 
one of them, Loomis, is mentioned more than the 
others. Loomis is their regular left end. He was on 
their team last year, and fellows I’ve talked with say 
he wasn’t much of a player.” 

Mr. Babcock was silent for a long moment. Then 
he asked briskly: “Think you could get to Cotterville 
next Saturday, Deane?’* 




CHAPTER XXI 
SCRUB VERSUS SCRUB 


'M 1 


”E, sir!” Loring looked startled. 

“I suppose you couldn’t. I forgot for 
the moment that you can’t get about as 
easily as the rest of us. It only occurred to me that, 
knowing what you do already, Deane, you’d be just 
the fellow. But never mind. I’ll find some one.” 

“Why, I could go, Mr. Babcock,” said Loring 
eagerly. “It—it sort of surprised me, that was all. 
And I’m not sure that I could do what you’d want, sir.” 

“I think you could. You see, I don’t want a report 
on the playing. I just want you to look around over 
there and see what goes on. There may be a nigger 
in the wood-pile, or there may not. If there is, you 
may not spot him, but it’s worth trying; and you’re 
the man for the job since you know the situation better 
than any of us. See who they use as substitutes and 
try to figure out why. If your hunch is the right one, 
Deane, they’ve got an end or a back over there that 
they’ve been keeping under cover. Look for him.” 

“Yes, sir. It’s sort of like spying, though, isn’t it?” 

“We call it scouting. It’s quite legitimate. They do 
it, and we do it, just as all the schools and colleges do, 
and they’ll expect us to have scouts there to-morrow 
234 


SCRUB VERSUS SCRUB 


just as we expect them to have scouts here. In fact, 
I think Fd tell them that you’re from Wyndham. 
Maybe they’ll get you a good place to see from.” 

“That’s one difficulty,” said Loring. “I’ll have to 
go over by automobile, and I suppose I couldn’t get 
near enough to see much without getting out.” 

“Unless they’ve changed their arrangements there,” 
replied the instructor, “you are allowed to park on one 
side of the field, and if you got there early enough you 
could pretty near have your choice. I’ll see about a 

_ n 

car— 

“No, please, sir! Wattles will attend to that. I’d a 
great deal rather not have you or any one pay for any¬ 
thing, Mr. Babcock.” 

“But, Deane, the Athletic Association is perfectly 
able to stand the expense, and it’s only fair that it 
should. An automobile will cost twenty dollars or so, 
I imagine, and there’s no reason why you should pay it.” 

“I’d rather, if you don’t mind, sir,” Loring per¬ 
sisted. 

“Well, suit yourself. I’ll see you again on Friday 
and we’ll talk it over before you go. By the way, you’d 
better have some one with you, hadn’t you?” 

“I’ll take Wattles, sir. Good night, and thanks for 
bothering with that play.” 

“If it works as I hope it’s going to, Deane, thanks 
will be going the other way. Good night.” 

The second cheer meeting—there had been one on 
the eve of the Toll’s game—was held Thursday after 
study hour, and some new songs were tried out—Mr. 
235 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Parks at the piano—and some old ones were resung. 
And, of course, there was a good deal of enthusiasm 
and noise. There was another and even more demon¬ 
strative affair Saturday evening, at which Mr. Babcock 
and Mr. Clendenin, who was Chairman of the Athletic 
Committee, and Captain Dave spoke, but before that 
other events transpired. 

The Scrub got badly mauled on Thursday, for the 
First Team, recovering its self-esteem and poise, went 
after revenge. Yet the Fighting Scrub proved once 
again its right to the nickname and the nine points 
scored by the adversary were hard earned. Loring’s 
forward-pass play—known now as Number 30—was 
twice used by the First, the second time for a long gain 
that led to the field-goal. This in spite of the fact that 
the Scrub knew the play and was watching for it. 
Friday was another hard day, for “Cocky” was driving 
the team with Wolcott in mind and making no prep¬ 
arations for the next day’s visitors. There was only 
one period of scrimmaging, but it lasted fifteen minutes 
and held at least one spectacular incident. That was 
Clif’s interception of Ogden’s forward-pass. Ogden, 
a second-string half, was being tried out at fullback 
and was making a good impression. Ogden, while not 
so heavy as Hanbury or Badger, still had a good deal 
of weight and wore it where it did the most good when 
he hit the Scrub line. And Ogden was faster than any 
of the other candidates for the position of alternate 
to “Big Bill.” That pass was made from kicking posi¬ 
tion after the First had hammered its way to the Scrub 
236 




SCRUB VERSUS SCRUB 


twenty-seven and two slams at the line had yielded but 
four yards. It was a quick, short heave over right 
tackle and was meant for Stiles or Archer, the latter 
having lately displaced Couch at left end, but Clif had 
swept around back of his line with the snapping of the 
ball, for ‘‘Wink” Coles had “called” the play, and it 
was Clif, and neither Whitemill nor Archer who was 
on the spot when the pass went over. Clif made the 
catch while still going at brisk speed and he kept on 
going, heading first for the side-line and then turning 
in. Since the First Team left end and right half were 
already out of the way, he had only Stoddard and 
Ogden to challenge him at first. But by the time he 
was well straightened out, running some five yards in¬ 
side the border, Cotter, First’s speedy left tackle, had 
taken up the chase. Cotter soon distanced the others, 
and it was he who finally threw Clif out of bounds at 
the First’s thirty-eight. That the Scrub only got five 
yards more in three downs spoke well for the big team’s 
defense. ‘‘Sim” Jackson’s toss to Adams grounded 
and First took the pigskin. But Clif had covered some 
forty-eight yards in that romp of his, and, back in the 
gymnasium, once more enjoyed the applause of his 
teammates. 

There were two games played on Wyndham Field 
on Saturday. At two o’clock the Wyndham and Wol¬ 
cott Scrub Teams met and, since the High Point con¬ 
test was not to begin until three, the School surrounded 
the farther gridiron and cheered lustily for the Scrub. 
When it was obliged to leave in order to be present at 
237 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


the kick-off of the more important contest the score 
was 7 to 7, the third period was a minute or two old 
and it was anybody’s game. There were some staunch 
supporters, however, who remained until the last, and 
they were well repaid, for it was the final fifteen min¬ 
utes that held the real thrills. 

Both Wyndham and Wolcott were reduced to line¬ 
ups largely composed of substitutes by that time, for 
the game had been a hard-fought and not over gentle 
affair. Although they were but Second Teams and no 
championship depended on their efforts, they were still 
Wyndham and Wolcott, rivals always. Each team 
played not for its own honor but for the honor of its 
School, and mighty deeds were performed before the 
question of supremacy was settled. At 7 to 7 the 
battle had waged into the third period and through it, 
and at 7 to 7 the last quarter had started. Then, when 
some three minutes had gone by, Wolcott’s brown- 
stockinged horde swept into its stride and, strengthened 
by the return of several first-string men who had been 
deposed in the first half, slammed its way down to the 
home team’s twenty-five-yard line. There the ball was 
lost only to be recovered again. From the thirty-two 
Wolcott started once more and tore forward. “Babe” 
Ridgway, who had stuck it out under a grueling 
attack through three busy periods, had to give way 
finally to Pat Tyson, and Pat was responsible for an 
advance that took Wolcott from the twenty-eight to 
the sixteen yards. Wyndham steadied then and held, 
momentarily, but when the enemy had reached the ten 
238 



SCRUB VERSUS SCRUB 


yards it was not to be denied, and at last, when two 
smashes at the center had netted but three, the Wolcott 
right half took the ball on a cross-buck and plunged 
inside Jimmy Ames for a first down. Three more 
plays put the pigskin across. 

The period was fully half over and those six points 
looked enough to spell victory for the visitor, but the 
Fighting Scrub couldn’t spell that way. Scrub set 
itself to dispute the try-for-point, and when A 1 Greene 
strode over the sprawling body of his adversary and 
plunged toward the kicker that youth hurried his effort. 
The ball didn’t miss the goal by many inches, but miss 
it did, and the Fighting Scrub gave voice to joy and 
stumbled back to positions. Mr. Connover shuffled his 
men then. Tyson crossed over to right tackle and 
“Wink” Coles went to center. Hoppin replaced Thayer 
and Patch took Clif’s place. And with that final change 
“Steve” shot his last bolt. He hadn’t a single available 
player left to call on! But Wolcott didn’t know that. 

Wyndham’s chance didn’t come along until the period 
was twelve minutes old. Then desperate, but still be¬ 
lieving in its ability to even the score, “Sim” Jackson, 
who had spent the third quarter on the bench, dug 
deeply into his small bag of tricks and, finding nothing 
much there, used what was left. It wasn’t much of a 
trick, either, but it served. The Fighting Scrub tore 
itself literally in half and the two halves hugged the 
side-lines. The ball went with the left portion of the 
team. Wolcott moved this way and that, momentarily 
at a loss how to meet the extraordinary formation. 
239 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


That wide-open space in the middle of the field held 
a strong attraction for the visitor, and, although it 
finally divided its defense just as Wyndham had divided 
its attack, it was evident that the opening was much 
on its mind. The handful of Wolcott adherents and 
players on the side-line howled derision. Then “Wink” 
passed the ball at an angle to Heard, a back across the 
field started with the ball and ran toward his own goal, 
and Wolcott became loudly vocal with warnings and 
advice and swarmed in the direction of the ball. Heard 
stepped back and back, facing the middle of the field. 
Then, when further delay meant danger, he swung half 
about and threw the ball to his left. Jeff Adams, who 
had skirted around close to the side-line and was now 
well away, put up a pair of long arms and a pair of 
large, eager hands and plucked the ball out of the air. 
After that, very soon after, he set out for Wolcott’s 
goal as though he had important business somewhere 
in its vicinity! 

But, although Jeff had a fair start, he wasn’t swift 
enough to cover fifty-odd yards before the enemy over¬ 
took him. He did consume thirty-three or possibly 
thirty-four, however, and when a fleet-footed, brown¬ 
legged enemy banged him vindictively to earth he was 
on Wolcott’s twenty-one! That bang was temporarily 
too much for Jeff and time was called while he was 
induced to put some air back into his lungs. Then, 
with the few Wyndham rooters that were present 
dancing about and waving sweaters and howling ecstat¬ 
ically, the Fighting Scrub returned to its struggle. It 
240 



SCRUB VERSUS SCRUB 


was fighting now not only against Wolcott but against 
time, for the final whistle wasn’t far off. Every one 
knows that you can’t use a trick play like that “split 
team” twice in succession and get away with it. Sim 
Jackson knew it. So he tried it again! 

That is, he split the team as before, while Wolcott 
showed amazement plainly. The fool thing was a 
crazy quarterback trying it close to the twenty! Well, 
they knew what to expect this time and so, while their 
forwards watched their men their backs arranged them¬ 
selves for a forward-pass. This time, naturally, Wol¬ 
cott didn’t waste three men to look after three of the 
enemy who were almost the width of the field from 
the ball. Wolcott put its strength where the danger 
lay. Which was a fortunate thing for Wolcott, since 
no forward-pass was attempted and Hoppin, who car¬ 
ried the ball, would have gained much more than seven 
yards had the opponent divided its forward line evenly. 
But even seven yards is not to be sneezed at when it 
lays the ball close to the thirteen! 

Wyndham closed up then and played rational foot¬ 
ball, and, with something under forty seconds left, 
cleared the goal-line in three plunges, beating the whistle 
by the tick of the watch. That touchdown—credit it 
to Stiles—tied the score, and when Lee Heard, plainly 
nervous, stepped far back to take the pass from “Wink” 
you could have heard a pin drop. Well, not just that, 
perhaps, for a pin doesn’t make much sound when it 
strikes a football field, I suppose, and there was a good 
deal of noise from the First Team gridiron; but things 
241 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


were awfully quiet just then. Even the Wolcott play¬ 
ers, prancing and edging, madly anxious to break 
through, said nothing! Then, when Heard had trod 
around for a moment back there, he held his arms out 
straight and—oh, well, he made the goal. There’s no 
use in prolonging suspense. Wyndham won the game, 
completing her season with three victories, and a score 
or so of tired, dirt-stained boys hugged each other 
weakly and cheered the defeated rival. 

Later, Clif and the others, refreshed and hurriedly 
rehabilitated, reached the other field in time to see the 
First play the final quarter of its game with High 
Point. It wasn’t very interesting, and even if it had 
been the Scrub players were still too excited over their 
own triumph to find it so. Ostensibly they watched 
the First Team substitutes vainly try to add to the Dark 
Blue’s score of 14 to o, but actually they saw little that 
went on. They were going over the Wolcott Scrub 
contest almost play by play and deriving a soul-satis¬ 
fying pleasure. The Fighting Scrub, however others 
might appraise it, thought very well of itself that Sat¬ 
urday afternoon! 




CHAPTER XXII 
THE SCRUB DISBANDS 


EITHER Clif nor Tom had more than a 



glimpse of Loring until late Sunday after¬ 
noon. Then Wattles found them both in 


Tom’s room and announced that Loring would like to 
see them in front of East Hall. 

“Have his folks gone, Wattles?” asked Tom. 

“No, sir, not yet. I think Mister Loring wishes you 
to meet them, sir.’’ 

Tom exchanged giances with Clif and then grabbed 
his brushes and smoothed his hair into place. “We’ll 
be right down, Wattles,” he said. Wattles departed 
and Clif seized the brushes that Tom had abandoned 
in favor of a whisk. Finally, a trifle awed, they set 
forth. But neither Mr. Deane nor Mrs. Deane proved 
formidable. Loring’s father was a tall, rather thin 
gentleman with a closely cropped gray mustache and 
pink cheeks, who looked more like an army man than 
the popular conception of a multimillionaire. He had 
a way of half closing his eyes when he smiled that 
was most engaging. Loring looked more like his 
mother, who, as Tom enthusiastically confided to Clif 
later, was “a pippin.” They were still in the handsome 
big car that had aroused Clif’s admiration several weeks 


243 


THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


before, and Loring sat between them. They had been 
to the shore for luncheon, Loring explained, and— 

“Lobster,” said Mr. Deane, squinting his eyes in his 
funny way and sighing. “They were good, weren’t 
they, Lory? Um-m!” 

“My dear,” chided Mrs. Deane, “do you think it’s 
kind to gloat over lobster before Clif and Tom? You 
don’t mind if I call you Clif, do you?” She smiled 
apologetically on Tom. “Loring speaks so often of 
you, you know.” 

“No, ma’am,” stammered Tom. 

“Perhaps Clif does, though,” laughed Loring. 
“You’ve got them mixed, mother.” 

“Have I? Well, that’s your fault, Loring. Your 
introduction was so sketchy! Which of you is it who 
plays football so nicely?” 

“Both of us, Mrs. Deane,” replied Clif daringly. 
“But Pm the one you had in mind.” 

“Huh-huh,” chuckled Mr. Deane appreciatively. 
Mrs. Deane dimpled and then sighed. 

“Pm afraid you’re making fun of me. Anyway, 
you’re both gorgeous looking boys, and I like you both 
for being so nice to my boy. And Pm coming up next 
Saturday—it is Saturday, isn’t it?—to see you play.” 

“I hope you will,” said Tom intensely. “We won’t 
be playing, but it’s going to be a corking game, Mrs. 
Deane.” 

“But I want to see you play,” she demurred. “And 
you.” She included Clif in her glance. “Perhaps, just 
as a favor to me, you will, won’t you?” 

244 




THE SCRUB DISBANDS 


Tom’s mouth opened, but he didn’t seem to be able 
to find anything to say. Then his eyes, wandering 
from Mrs. Deane, encountered Loring’s grin and he 
got very red and made a choking sound. Clif came 
to his rescue. “We’ll do our best,” he laughed. “You 
see, we’re only on the Scrub Team, Mrs. Deane, and 
it’s the First Team that plays Wolcott. I hope you 
will come, too, sir.” 

“Eh?” said Loring’s father. “Well, now, I don’t 
know.” 

“I wish you would, dad,” begged Loring. 

“Well, I’ll see, Lory. It seems to me, though, I’ve 
got something on Sautrday.” 

“Not a thing but a game of golf,” said Mrs. Deane, 
“and if Loring wants you to come—” 

“Yes, yes, my dear! Of course!” He winked slyly 
at Clif. “I daresay it will rain Saturday, anyway.” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’d golfed in the 
rain,” responded his wife severely. “But next Satur¬ 
day, rain or shine, you are coming up here with me.” 

“Yes, my dear,” he chuckled, “I’m sure I am. Boys, 
take the advice of a wise old man and don’t marry a 
tyrannical wife!” 

“No, sir,” answered Tom promptly and earnestly. 
Whereat every one laughed and Wattles lifted Loring 
out and the' big car rolled away. 

Eager to hear what Loring had learned at Cotter- 
ville the day before, Clif and Tom hurried over to his 
room after supper. But only Wattles was there. 
Mister Loring, he explained, was visiting Mr. Babcock. 
245 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Wattles’s tone was rather impressive. Since that visit 
to Wolcott yesterday he had carried himself with added 
dignity, for was not he, too, concerned in matters of 
deep moment? Had he not taken a part, though a 
humble one, in diplomatic affairs? Always a model 
of discretion, to-night Wattles was discreeter than 
ever, and when Tom asked: “Did he find out anything, 
Wattles ?” he glanced toward windows and doors be- 
fore, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur, he 
answered: “Yes, sir. Something extremely important, 
Mister Kemble, but I am not at liberty to mention it, 
sir.” 

“Oh, roll your hoop,” grumbled Tom. “I guess he 
will tell us, all right.” 

“Oh, yes, sir,” agreed Wattles. “Quite so, sir.” 

But they didn’t learn very much from Loring, after 
all, for “Cocky” had advised against it. He did tell 
them about the journey to Cotterville, in the same 
antiquated but efficient vehicle that had brought Tom 
back from Danbury, and how Wattles, learning some¬ 
thing of the mission, had advised stopping en route 
and securing disguises, Wattles favoring for himself a 
voluminous beard. But as to what he had actually 
observed at the Wolcott game Loring was vague and 
reticent. Tom got a trifle huffy and said he guessed 
Loring hadn’t found out anything much, anyway, if 
you asked him! 

Monday morning Mr. Wyatt detained Tom after 
class and said: “At my suggestion, Kemble, the Faculty 
has released you from restrictions.” If he had expected 
246 




THE SCRUB DISBANDS 


Tom to exhibit delight he was disappointed. Tom said 
“Thank you, sir,” in a listless voice and looked a trifle 
bored. 

“I hope,” said the instructor, “the news hasn’t dis¬ 
pleased you?” 

“Sir?” Tom viewed him questioningly. “Oh, no, 
sir.” Then, recollecting that the removal of restric¬ 
tions would enable him to see the Wolcott game, he 
added with a touch of animation: “It’s great, Mr. 
Wyatt. I thought, maybe, I wouldn’t get to Cotterville 
Saturday.’’ 

“I see. And, of course, you can play football again, 
Kemble.” 

“Not much use, sir. The team gets through Wednes¬ 
day.” 

“Gets through? To be sure. So it does. Hm. I’d 
forgotten that.” Mr. Wyatt looked so puzzled that 
Tom wondered. Tom didn’t know, of course, that Mr. 
Babcock had dropped in on “Alick” last evening and 
that his, Tom’s, affairs had come up for discussion; 
nor that Mr. Wyatt’s puzzlement had to do with 
“Cocky’s” efforts to secure the removal of restrictions 
from a boy whose football usefulness was practically 
at an end! “Well,’’ continued the instructor, “I trust 
that hereafter—er—we shall not have to—” His 
thoughts returned to Mr. Babcock— “Hm, that will 
be all, Kemble.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Tom, glad of release. 

Coincidences do sometimes happen outside of fiction. 
Less than thirty seconds later, having reached the foot 
247 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


of the stairway, Tom almost collided with a hurrying 
figure. 

“Hello!” said Mr. Babcock. “Almost had—is that 
Kemble ?” He stopped abruptly in his long stride. 
“Look here, are you square with the Office ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good! Report to me this afternoon then.” 

“You mean—” Tom swallowed. “Yes, sir!” 

“Come ready to play, Kemble.” “Cocky’s” voice 
came back from well down the corridor. “May be able 
to use you, young fellow!” 

Well, things were happening strangely these days, 
thought Tom! 

They went on happening that way at intervals, too. 
Tom joined the First Team squad on Monday. On 
Tuesday he played left half against his former com¬ 
panions of the Scrub, putting in almost as much time 
at that job as did Whitemill and getting off the one 
long forward-pass that secured any ground for the 
First. What it all meant Tom could guess as little as 
any one, with the probable exceptions of “Cocky” and 
Captain Dave. But the cat was out of the bag on 
Wednesday, and the heavens fell. I realize that the 
metaphors don’t belong together, but each is satisfy- 
ingly apt. 

On Wednesday the truth about “Big Bill 9 ’ Fargo 
became known. He had been sent home Saturday on 
the advice of the school physician and now he was 
stretched out flat in some hospital with one knee entirely 
surrounded by plaster of Paris! Oh, he would be back 
248 




THE SCRUB DISBANDS 


in a week or two, but there wouldn’t be any more foot¬ 
ball or basketball or hockey for “Big Bill” this winter. 
The fact that he would be back in a fortnight or less 
interested the School not a particle just then. Later it 
would consider that fact with gratification, but just 
now all that occupied its mind was that the Team had 
lost its best fullback in years, the one player who never 
got hurt, the man around whom the Team’s attack 
had been carefully constructed! So when I say that 
the heavens fell I’m choosing my metaphor very care¬ 
fully. 

Until then Wyndham had still hoped to defeat her 
rival. The loss of Coach Otis had been a severe blow, 
but victory had remained a possibility in the judgment 
of most. But now—why, it wasn’t worth talking 
about! That game was as good as played! Might 
just as well cheer Wolcott to-day and have it over with! 

There were some who advocated forfeiting the game 
while there was still time, but this idea didn’t meet 
with general approval, not even while the stunning effect 
of the blow was yet at its height. No, they’d play 
Wolcott and do the best they could. That was only 
sportsmanly. And maybe the poor, decrepit old Team 
would crawl out of the contest still recognizable to its 
closest friends! In any case, defeat was honorable if 
not desirable! 

There was a good deal of talk during Wednesday 
and Thursday about Honor in Defeat, and the Last 
Ditch, and Going Through With It. Wednesday 
night’s mass meeting was truly pathetic. “Shadowed 

249 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Walls” sounded like a dirge when it was sung, and 
“Win! Win! Wyndham,” for all of its volume, was 
less a cheer than an intoned elegy. It suggested renun¬ 
ciation but not defiance. Mr. Babcock’s gravely cheer¬ 
ful remarks were applauded politely. The School ap¬ 
preciated his efforts but was not to be deluded. There 
were other speakers, too, and they wasted a lot of 
words, in the judgment of their hearers. What was 
the good of being hopeful when there wasn’t any hope 
left? 

But on Thursday evening the meeting was different. 
Though defeat was still accepted as inevitable, the no¬ 
tion of taking it lying down was no longer popular. The 
sentiment to-night favored getting in just as many 
good, hard licks as was possible before being counted 
out. There was still a strong “We who are about to 
die salute you’’ savor to proceedings, but the salutation 
was distinctly defiant. A courteous letter from the 
Wolcott Academy Athletic Association deploring the 
unfortunate loss to Wyndham of its Head Coach was 
read and almost moved the hearers to tears. Somehow, 
there seemed something quite touching in the idea of 
the lion sympathizing with its victim before devouring 
him! Wyndham cheered that letter to the echo. 

The Scrub did not disband on Wednesday, according 
to custom, although Wednesday witnessed the final real 
game between it and First. At Mr. Babcock’s direction 
the Scrub postponed dissolution for twenty-four hours 
and on Thursday lined up opposite the big team for 
some twenty minutes while the latter put the polishing 
250 




THE SCRUB DISBANDS 


touches on several plays, among them Number 30. 
Tackling was prohibited, and the somewhat ludicrous 
spectacle of Billy Desmond and A1 Greene scowling 
darkly at each other without once coming to grips was 
presented. The captaincy of the Scrub had fallen to 
Johnny Thayer on Monday, and it was Johnny who 
gathered the team about him in the early twilight that 
Thursday afternoon and led the cheer. 

“Win, win, Wyndham! Win, win, Wyndham! 
Win, win, Wyndham! Scrub! Scrub! SCRU-U-UB!” 

The First cheered then, and after that the Scrub 
cheered the First, and the audience cheered the Scrub 
and the Scrub cheered Mr. Connover, and Mr. Con- 
nover cheered—no, that isn’t right! But there was a 
good deal of cheering and noise; and a good deal of 
laughter as the Scrub formed in line and, eighteen 
strong, marched off abreast behind a long strip of 
white oilcloth bearing the inscription in large black 
letters: THE FIGHTING SCRUB—The Team That 
Put the “Win” in Wyndham—Scrub 13; F. H. S. o; 
—Scrub 26; T. A. 9—Scrub 13; W. 2nd 12—WE 
WERE GOOD AND WE ACKNOWLEDGE IT! 

Clif held his breath and turned the cold full on, 
shivered deliciously as the icy water peppered his glow¬ 
ing body and broke into song: 

“Whoop it up for Wyndham! Whoop it up loud! 

Here we come on the run! Same old crowd! 

What we did before, boys, we can do again! 

W—Y—N—D—H—A—Mi” 

251 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Then he turned the shower off, reached for his towel 
and dried himself, avoiding the still trickling sprinkler 
above. Well, that was over! No more football until 
next fall. It was a sort of relief, too. There had 
been just about enough of it. Of course he would feel 
horribly lost for a week or so, but there were compen¬ 
sations. For instance, eats! For six weeks and more 
he hadn’t had a piece of pie, and the pie at Wyndham 
was good! To-morrow he wouldn’t have to pass his 
piece across to Crosby. No, sir. And he wouldn’t 
have to think whether he ought to eat this, that and 
the other. No, sir, he’d just eat it! 

There wasn’t much drying necessary, and after a 
moment Clif wrapped the damp towel about him and 
padded his way along the wet tile floor to the locker- 
room. And there was Johnny Thayer, disgracefully 
unadorned, striding toward him and grinning like a 
catfish, and holding him with a glittering eye. Clif 
knew that something portentous was about to happen. 
He had one of Tom’s “hunches.’’ Johnny stayed him 
with two hands against his bare chest and spoke in 
in hoarse elation. 

“You and ‘Wink’ and I go to the First! What do 
you know?” 

“Ice-cold water on the head is good,” replied Clif. 1 
But his levity was strained, for he knew that Johnny 
was talking true talk. 

“It’s gospel! ‘Cocky* just told me. Ask ‘Wink.* 
He’s over there.” 

“Did he say me, too?” asked Clif, conscious of the 
252 




THE SCRUB DISBANDS 


fact that his heart was thumping as if he had just 
completed an eighty-yard run. Johnny nodded vigor¬ 
ously. 

“The three of us, old ruffian! Ain’t it great? Gee, 
they have to come to the Fighting Scrub when they 
want real talent!” 

“But, I don’t see— What’s the big idea? Where 
do I fit in? You and 'Wink,’ sure, but me—” 

“Oh, 'Cocky’ ’ll find a use for you, Clif. Trust that 
old bird! Say, I’m tickled to death! Gee, why, we’ll 
get our letters, anyway; all three of us probably! 
What price me with a big blue W on my tummy?” 

“Well, I don’t know, Johnny. We mightn’t. There’s 
a lot of fellows on that First Team squad now. I 
don’t see what he’s going to do with us all!” 

“Feed us to Wolcott one at a time. Maybe 'Cocky’s* 
idea is to give Wolcott indigestion, eh? Anyway, I 
should concern myself. All I want is a chance at some 
of those big stiffs. That and my letter!” 

Johnny strode gloriously on toward the showers and 
Clif mingled with the crowd that filled the locker-room. 
Oddly, no one took any notice of him; just as if he 
hadn’t been joined up with the First at all! But, he 
consoled himself, they probably hadn’t heard yet. He 
sought out Tom with his eyes and waved a brown 
stocking at him. Tom waved back, but it was evident 
that he didn’t know. His wave had been too casual. 
Clif chuckled and hurried his dressing He would wait 
for Tom and tell him the thrilling news on the way 
to Hall! 


253 





CHAPTER XXIII 

WYNDHAM PLAYS WOLCOTT 

F RIDAY .was an unreal sort of a day to Clif. He 
made a miserable fizzle of three recitations and 
conducted himself generally as though he was 
sleep-walking. It was only at three-thirty that he really 
became conscious. Then he came out of his trance and 
trotted around the field at the end of a line of seven 
third-string players, trying to get the signals right 
when Braley barked them. Two other squads indulged 
in the same recreation; and there were several fellows 
left out, at that, for the Wyndham First Team now 
consisted of thirty-seven players. Clif’s squad was the 
last to quit signal drill, and after it was over he joined 
a dozen others and caught and threw the ball while the 
field gradually emptied. By five the last practice was 
over and the last player clumped across the running 
track and over the turf to the gymnasium leaving the 
field to darkness. Lights were already on in the gym¬ 
nasium and East Hall when Clif and “Wink’* left the 
gridiron. 

That evening there was an hour of blackboard drill 
in the rowing room from seven-thirty to eight-thirty. 
Team members had been given study cuts since recita¬ 
tions had been abolished for Saturday. After drill 
254 


WYNDHAM PLAYS WOLCOTT 


Mr. Babcock brushed the chalk from his hands and 
spoke briefly. “I want every fellow to go from here 
right to his room,” said the Coach. “At any rate, keep 
away from that cheer meeting over there. Read or 
talk for a while and then get to bed. Bedtime to-night 
is nine-thirty for all of you. No matter if you aren’t 
sleepy. Get into bed and relax and try not to think 
about anything. That’s the best way to get to sleep 
that I know of. 

“We’ve got a hard job ahead of us, fellows, but 
we’re equal to it. I tell you honestly that you’re good 
enough to beat Wolcott to-morrow, if you’ll do your 
best and fight hard. We’ve had our troubles here, as 
you know, but we’ve surmounted them all just as fast 
as they showed themselves. We’ve had to change our 
whole plan of battle at the last minute, but we’ve de¬ 
veloped another plan that will answer fully as well. I 
don’t want one of you to acknowledge to himself the 
possibility of defeat. I tell you you’re going to win. 
But you’ve got to believe it yourselves, and you’ve got 
to work. Keep your thoughts right, fellows. Say to 
yourselves, T’m going to play harder to-morrow than 
I ever played in my life, just as all the others are going 
to, and together we’re going to win!’ Half the battle 
is in having faith. The other half is in doing. Culti¬ 
vate the will to win. Now we’ll go out quietly, with 
no cheering. We’ll leave the cheering until to-morrow 
evening.” 

Over in assembly hall, Doctor Wyndham finished his 
speech by reading a letter from Coach Otis. It was 
255 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


only a few lines in length, predicting a Wyndham vic¬ 
tory and counseling the School to stand firm behind the 
Team and show its faith. There were cheers for the 
Principal and for the absent coach and a big, long cheer 
for Wyndham, and then the meeting stampeded through 
the doors and down the hall and formed again outside 
and became quite mad. Clif and Tom, up in Number 
17, stopped their talk and listened. 

“Rah, rah, rah! Drayton!” 

“Rah, rah, rah! Cotter!” 

On they went, through the long list. “Rah, rah, rah! 
Kemble!” Clif grinned nervously. He was afraid 
they would cheer him and afraid they wouldn’t. They 
did, at last. And they ended up with “Wink” Coles. 
After that there was a moment of confused shouting 
and then came a long cheer for the Team. Subse¬ 
quently a strident voice began “Whoop It Up” and 
every one down there joined in and the bravely rollick¬ 
ing strains drowned Tom’s statement that it was close 
to half-past and he guessed he’d better hit the hay. 
He waited until the song was over, humming the words 
softly, and then nodded and closed the door behind 
him. Alone, Clif sat for several minutes where Tom 
had left him while the sounds below quieted and died 
away. Finally he began to undress and discovered to 
his surprise that his fingers were trembling so that they 
made hard work of the buttons! 

Clif didn’t go to Cotterville with his father, although 
256 




WYNDHAM PLAYS WOLCOTT 


the latter appeared at Freeburg long before eleven 
o’clock. Trying hard to seem offhand and casual, Clif 
explained the circumstances, but he had to grin when 
Mr. Bingham jammed his thumb against the horn but¬ 
ton and sent forth a strident wail that populated the 
steps of East and West Halls in something under three 
seconds. 

“Well, well, well! ,, exclaimed Mr. Bingham. “Gosh, 
son, that’s great news, isn’t it? Aren’t you mighty 
proud, eh? Hang it all, don’t stand there and make 
believe you’re not! I am, anyway. Yes, sir!” 

Toot, to-o-o-ot! went the horn. 

“Gee, dad, don’t!” begged Clif. “The fellows’ll 
think—” 

“What if they do?” laughed his father. “I want 
them to!” 

Mr. Bingham took Walter Treat and three other 
boys of Walt’s choosing over to Cotterville, while Clif 
traveled in one of the three big busses that rolled away 
at twelve to the cheering of their companions, massed 
in front of West. Loring, declining Mr. Babcock’s offer 
of transportation, was one of many youths who made 
the trip by auto in company with parents or friends. 
Loring rode between his father and mother, and Wat¬ 
tles sat with the chauffeur, who, to Wattles’s disgust, 
knew no football save soccer. Wattles had a thoroughly 
pleasant ride, and by the time Cotterville was reached 
the chauffeur had become vastly better informed on 
one subject at least. 

Clif and Tom had tried to stick together, but some- 

257 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


how in the confusion of departure they had got into 
different busses. Clif had Joe Whitemill and Phil 
Cotter for immediate neighbors. Phil was in rather 
hectic spirits and, claiming to have founded Cotterville, 
related many humorous and hitherto unpublished inci¬ 
dents connected with the early history of the town. 
He flatly refused, however, to accept responsibility 
for Wolcott Academy. That misfortune, he stoutly 
averred, had taken place during one of his absences 
from the old home. 

The sun shone brightly, but there was a cold north¬ 
west wind blowing and much speculation was indulged 
in as to the effect of that wind on the kicking game. 
There was a good deal of discussion about Wyndham’s 
chances, and what sort of a line Wolcott had and 
whether its ends were any better than last year’s. And 
now and then they sang a little. But the singing soon 
petered out. Every fellow in the bus at one time or 
another fell into silent abstraction. Clif didn’t say a 
great deal. His remarks were spasmodic and his 
laughter somewhat tuneless. Away down inside some¬ 
where he was scared, and, while he assured himself 
countless times that there wasn’t the ghost of a chance 
of his getting into the game, unless for a moment at 
the end that he might get his letter, at the back of his 
mind the thought persisted that he might be called on. 
He tried to remember the play numbers and discovered 
to his horror that he had forgotten nearly all! He 
finally got hold of the straight buck sequence, 2 to 5, 
but couldn’t remember what 6 was. Nor 7. Nor 8— 

258 




WYNDHAM PLAYS WOLCOTT 


hold on, though, 8 was a cross-buck with left half 
carrying. Gradually memory returned, although to the 
end of the journey six plays eluded him. He might 
have asked Whitemill or Cotter, but he was ashamed 
to. Besides, there would be time enough on the bench 
in which to refresh his memory. 

When the busses passed through a village there was 
loud cheering, not only for Wyndham but for anything 
else that captured interest. At Peyton a much bewhis- 
kered citizen leaning against a post in front of the 
general store made an instant hit. Three royal cheers 
were given for “Ostermoor”—though how the fellows 
knew his name must remain a mystery—and the sur¬ 
prised gentleman was the recipient of many compli¬ 
ments. Between the villages opportunities for '‘raz¬ 
zing” were fewer but never neglected. A faster car, 
passing a bus, was pursued by indignant cries of 
“Speedhound!” “Oooh, wait till I tell the Constabule!” 
“Hey, Mister! You’re hittin’ twenty!” “Oh, you 
Dare-devil!” “You pesky city folks, you!” All this, 
Clif found, helped you to forget that your luncheon, 
as light as it had been, had become a leaden lump and 
that there was a spot somewhere between the nape of 
your neck and the top of your head that felt like a 
small lump of ice! 

At Cotterville they pulled up in front of a small 
yellow frame building at the edge of the athletic field. 
Across a wide stretch of still green turf the school 
buildings peered back at them from behind nearly 
leafless trees. It was twenty minutes past one then, 
259 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


and the game was to start at two-fifteen, but already 
there was a trickling stream of folks crossing the far 
side of the field in the direction of the iron stands. 
Many automobiles, too, were in place beyond the ropes, 
and the occupants were having picnic lunches there. 
Above the grandstand a big brown flag bearing a white 
W waved and whipped in the wind. The sun was 
doing its best for the occasion. It made the freshly 
drawn lines of the gridiron gleam, gave the dying grass 
a real semblance of summer verdancy, found a clump 
of birches on the nearby hillside that still held their 
leaves and made a golden splendor of them and, flash¬ 
ing against the varnished surfaces of the parked cars, 
created blobs of light that dazzled the eyes. And over 
there, too, it discovered a fluttering blue pennant bear¬ 
ing a white W and illumined it gloriously. 

In the field house Dan Farrell, the trainer, laid out 
the contents of his bags and the haunting odor of his 
own special liniment permeated the quarters. The call 
to change into togs came at half-past one and at a 
quarter to two they were all ready. Mr. Babcock and 
Mr. Hilliard and Mr. Connover ended their low-voiced 
conference in a corner and herded the players outside 
to the sunlit porch. It wasn’t one of the coaches, 
though, who spoke to them then. It was Captain Dave 
Lothrop, and partly because Dave never did say much 
and even now couldn’t find the right words, although 
he tried hard enough, his little speech got under their 
skins. He didn’t say anything new. Indeed, what is 
there new that may be said at such times? It has all 
260 




WYNDHAM PLAYS WOLCOTT 


been said over and over again, hundreds, thousands 
of times, since the first football team was formed. 
But Dave, floundering, seeking desperately for words, 
his eyes fixed on the barred field over yonder, 
managed to endow old sounds with a fresh mean¬ 
ing. 

“Coach says we can do it, fellows,” said Dave. 
“He’s not lying to us. Besides, I know, too. I know 
that if we think—if we just say we can lick ’em—go 
out there and fight every minute, every second, just 
forgetting everything but beating Wolcott—why, I 
know we can, fellows! We’ve got to fight, fight hard. 
Well, we can do it. We’ve got to fight harder than 
they fight. We can do that, too. I—I wouldn’t want 
to lead you fellows out there if I wasn’t certain right 
down to my boots that you meant to lick those guys. 
Think what it would be like to go back to Wyndham 
to-night beaten. We couldn’t face the School! Why, 
hang it, we’ve got to win! That’s all there is to it. 
We’ve got to win! And when you’ve got to do a thing, 
y OU —you”—Dave’s gaze came back from the gridiron 
and challenged them—“you do it, if you’re not yellow! 
Well, that’s all. Only”—Dave shot out a big fist— 
“tell me this. Are you going to fight? Are you going 
to win?” 

“Yes!” The reply was an explosion of pent-up 
emotions, a determined, defiant, exalted burst of sound 
that carried far across the sunlit field. 

“Come on, then!” said Dave. 

Twenty minutes later the gridiron was empty again. 
261 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


A silver half-dollar had spun into the sunlight and 
dropped to the turf. Captains and officials were back 
on the side-lines. The raucous blaring of the Wolcott 
Student Band was stilled, the cheering had momentarily 
hushed and the throng that filled every seat in the 
stand and overflowed along the ropes drew coats and 
wraps higher, resettled in their places and braced them¬ 
selves for the fray. Then eleven brown-stockinged 
youths ran out from one side of the barred battlefield 
and eleven blue-stockinged youths from the other, and 
the cheers began again and the Wolcott bass-drummer 
thumped mightily and several thousand persons, many 
of them normally unemotional, experienced a sudden 
shortness of breath accompanied by a fluttery sensation 
of the heart. And at about that moment, on the east 
side of the field, a man in a black derby confided to a 
man in a chauffeur’s livery that, “That’s the captain 
of our side, Henry. Lothrop his name is. He’s to 
kick the ball away.” 

“With them long legs, and the powerful looks of 
him,” responded his companion with relish, “I’m 
thinkin’ them other laddies’ll be chasin’ it back to the 
hills yonder!” 

That no such performance as that was contemplated 
or desirable was being explained when the ball sailed 
up and away and the informant relapsed into silence. 
Somewhere at the north end of the field a player caught 
the pigskin, tucked it against him and went down be¬ 
fore he had taken two strides. The Wyndham cheers 
burst forth, high and sharp. Wolcott tried the Wynd- 
262 



WYNDHAM PLAYS WOLCOTT 


ham left and was repulsed, shot her fullback at Des¬ 
mond and got three yards and then punted far, the wind 
that quartered the gridiron adding a good ten yards to 
the kick. Wyndham ran the ball back six yards or 
so, tried two slams at the brown line and punted back 
to Wolcott’s forty. The ancient enemies were trying 
each other out. 

Wolcott got three yards outside Cotter and two more 
through Captain Dave, but a five-yard penalty set her 
back and again she punted on third down. This time 
the ball rolled over the line. Jensen got free around 
Wolcott’s left end and carried the pigskin on the first 
down to the twenty-eight yards. Ogden, from kicking 
position, tried a straight buck on right tackle and was 
thrown for a yard loss. Jensen made two outside left 
tackle and Ogden punted short to midfield, where the 
ball went out. Not until the quarter was almost over 
did either team bid for a score. Then Wolcott tried 
a short forward-pass over the center that grounded 
and followed it from the same formation with a fake 
that sent left half around the right for fourteen yards 
and placed the ball on Wyndham’s twenty-eight. A 
cross-buck on Cotter failed of an inch and Wolcott 
again threw forward. This time the throw was long, 
fast and low and aimed at the comer of the field. Over 
there, close to the goal-line, the Brown’s left halfback 
turned as the pigskin sped forward. Four strides would 
have taken him across, but, although he had skillfully 
eluded the Wyndham defense until now, Nemesis, in 
the form of Pete Jensen, was at hand, and while Pete 
263 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


couldn’t get in position to steal the catch he could and 
did bat the ball aside. 

With two downs left, Wolcott sent her fullback out¬ 
side right tackle from kicking position and gained four 
yards, placing the ball on the twenty-four. From the 
thirty-three, with quarterback holding the ball, John¬ 
son, Wolcott’s rangy left tackle, tried a goal from 
placement while the Wyndham cohorts held their 
breaths. Johnson had the quartering gale to figure 
with, and it seemed that he underestimated the force 
of it, for the pigskin, while it started true enough, met 
the full strength of the wind before it had covered 
half the distance and swerved widely to the left. Not 
until an official waved his arms negatively, though, was 
Wyndham certain that the effort had failed. 

A minute later, after Wyndham had punted, the 
whistle blew and the teams made for the water pails. 
The Wolcott band came to life again, and the cheer 
leaders swung their megaphones. Then Wyndham 
took the north goal and faced the enemy on the thirty- 
nine yards. There were no changes in the Wyndham 
line-up. Archer and Drayton were still the ends, Cot¬ 
ter and Weldon the tackles, Lothrop and Desmond the 
guards, Carlson the center, Stoddard the quarter, 
Whitemill and Jensen the halfs and Ogden the full¬ 
back. Nor had Wolcott yet altered her team. The 
opposing elevens were strikingly alike in appearance. 
Each presented a center trio of big, fairly heavy men 
closely matched for height and weight. Each featured 
fast, rangy tackles and rather light ends. In the back- 
264 




WYNDHAM PLAYS WOLCOTT 


field Wolcott had a slight advantage in weight, for 
James, her fullback, was a fellow after “Big Bill” 
Fargo’s style, although he lacked Fargo’s ability to 
start quickly and was far less dangerous on end runs. 
Wolcott’s quarter had weight and carried the ball fre¬ 
quently. Her halfbacks were fairly light and showed 
speed. One, Hoskins, had already proved himself a 
very shifty player. 

The second period saw a good deal of old-fashioned 
football on the part of Wolcott and a punting game 
on the part of the opponent. Wolcott used straight 
plunges and slants with sufficient success to take her 
to the Blue’s thirty-six yards. There her gains lessened 
and two sweeping plays and two forward-passes took 
her no further than the twenty-seven, where she yielded 
the ball. Hoskins was the Brown’s forward-pass ace, 
but Hoskins was so closely watched that he was unable 
to show anything. Wyndham punted on second down 
and watched for a break. With that wind quartering 
the field a fumble by a Wolcott back would have sur¬ 
prised no one. But the break didn’t come. Wolcott 
declined to catch the punts after two narrow escapes 
and the ball was allowed to roll, twice going over the 
goal line for touchbacks. Four penalties were handed 
out by the referee, two to each team, but none affected 
the fortunes of the game appreciably. The whistle 
ended the half fifty-two minutes after the kick-off. 




CHAPTER XXIV 
WATTLES AGREES 

HE teams trailed off and the rival cheering 



sections became conceitedly vocal once more. 


JL One had to either cheer or sing if only to 
keep warm! The Wolcott songsters followed the band 
through a martial effort that wasn’t a great success 
because most of the fellows had forgotten the words 
and sang “dum-ti-dum-dum” instead. Then Dodson, 
Wyndham cheer captain, tossed aside his big blue mega¬ 
phone and threw his arms aloft. 

“Let’s have 'We Beat Her,’ fellows! Everybody 
into it and make it snappy. All right! ‘We-e-e—’!” 

Whereupon the visiting contingent answered with 
their latest effusion, sung to the tune of a popular 
ballad of the year: 

“We beat her back in *i6, in ’17 once more; 

We swamped her in ’20 with a sixteen-nothing score! 

We beat her in ’21 when she couldn’t hold the ball, 

But this year, on her own field, we’ll beat her worst 
of all!” 

Wyndham had no band to aid—or hinder—but she 
made the welkin ring. Dodson, white-sweatered, 
leaped and danced and kept time with waving arms 


266 


WATTLES AGREES 


and swaying body. “Great! Once more now! All 
sing!” They responded valiantly, louder than before 
since many, previously silent, found courage and lifted 
their voices. Wolcott applauded and laughed and 
came back with a derisive composition in which 
“Wyndham” was insultingly punned with “wind ’em.” 

Across the field, Mr. Deane lighted a fresh cigar 
and said: “Well, it looks as if they’d pulled that fel¬ 
low’s teeth, eh? What’shisname, I mean.” 

“Hoskins?” asked Loring. “Yes, I don’t believe he 
will trouble us much, father. Mr. Babcock set two 
men to covering him and he hasn’t got away with any¬ 
thing yet. What Wolcott may do, though, is fake a 
throw to Hoskins and send the ball the other way. 
That might catch us napping.” 

“How did you spy that fellow, Lory?” 

“They ran him on near the end of last week’s game. 
Wolcott had scored a touchdown and a field-goal in 
the first half and sent her first-string men off to the 
showers. After that she couldn’t do much. The other 
team got scrappy and held Wolcott twice inside its 
twenty yards. I think Wolcott thought she ought to 
have one score at least to show for the last half and 
took a chance. Anyway, after she’d used up two downs 
over there near the twenty-five-yard line she called 
Hoskins in, and he sifted through on the first play and 
trotted down to the corner of the field, just as he did 
a few minutes ago. The ball went right into his hands 
and he stepped over the line for a touchdown. Then 
he was taken right out again. I saw the trainer hand 
267 




THE FIGHTING SCRUB 




him his sweater and send him back to the gym. That 
was all I needed to see, sir.” 

Mr. Deane chuckled, and Mrs. Deane said admir¬ 
ingly: “I think that was very, very clever, dear.” 

'‘Thanks, moms, but it really wasn’t. Any one could 
have called the turn. I suppose they thought we didn’t 
know that they’d been working up that forward-passing 
stuff under cover. They’d kept it pretty well hidden. 
If they had thought twice, though, they wouldn’t have 
shown their hand like that.” 

“It’s safe to say they wish they hadn’t,” chuckled 
Mr. Deane. “I suppose they’re wondering now what 
happened, eh?” 

“They know what happened,” laughed Loring, “but 
it’s a bit late! I wish we had managed to get one score 
in that half, though. Wolcott will come back pretty 
hard, I guess.” 

Both teams had made changes when they faced each 
other once more. For Wyndham, Williams was at left 
end, Couch at right end, Higgs at center, Breeze at 
right guard and Houston at quarter. The Blue chose 
the north goal and kicked off to Wolcott. The wind 
had decreased perceptibly and grown flukey, and 
Ogden’s kick-off went out of bounds on Wolcott’s 
twenty-seven yards. Three minutes later the Brown 
had crossed the middle of the field and taken the pig¬ 
skin into Wyndham territory. Faking a forward- 
pass, she sent her left half, a fresh player who had 
relieved Hoskins, on a wide run around the right end. 
Couch was neatly boxed and the ball went to the thirty- 
268 




WATTLES AGREES 


four yards. Wolcott was going now. Concentrating 
on the Wyndham left, she made first down on the 
twenty-two, sending Cotter out of the game. Long- 
well took his place. Wolcott tried Longwell and made 
a scant two. A short heave over tackle on the right 
bounded out of the catcher’s hands, was fumbled by 
Ogden and grounded. With eight to go on third down, 
Wolcott elected to try a field goal. She attempted one 
more smash first, though, and pulled in another two 
yards through Captain Lothrop. Then the ball shot 
back to her right tackle, who had retreated to the 
twenty-nine yards, and, although the Wyndham for¬ 
wards tore through desperately, arose again safely and 
sailed squarely across the bar for the first score. 

The Brown’s adherents went wild with joy, the big 
drum boomed, and automobile horns blared stridently. 
Wyndham’s cheer, though, was loud and undismayed 
as the teams went back to midfield. Wolcott kicked 
off. Houston caught, juggled for a heart-breaking 
instant, dodged the first Wolcott end and then plunged 
straight ahead. A second tackier tried, missed and 
went down. A hasty interference formed about the 
runner, Weldon in the lead, mowing down the enemy. 
At the thirty-six yards, forced away from his inter¬ 
ference, Houston was pulled to earth after a stirring 
run of thirty yards, 

Wyndham kept the ball to Wolcott’s thirty-nine, 
Ogden and Jensen alternating at slants that tore off 
four, five, once eight yards. On the enemy’s thirty- 
269 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


nine an off-side penalty set the Blue back and, after 
two plunges that netted little, Ogden punted to the 
Brown’s five. The Wolcott quarter refused the catch 
and the ball bounced erratically back in the direction 
it had traveled. Weldon put it down on the fourteen 
yards. Wolcott tried one off-tackle play from kick 
formation and gained three. Then she punted, James, 
her fullback, standing close to the five yards. Lothrop 
broke through and hurried the kick and the pigskin 
went high and was shortened by the wind. Jensen 
caught close to the side-line on Wolcott’s thirty-two, 
made three and was thrown out. 

The Blue took up her journey again, a short pass, 
Ogden to Houston, yielding seven yards and Ogden 
carrying the ball through the right side for a first down. 
Wyndham cheerers were chanting “Touchdown, Wynd- 
ham! Touchdown, Wyndham! Touchdown, Wynd¬ 
ham !” Wolcott asked for time and put in a fresh left 
guard. Ogden ran up against a stone wall on the next 
play and Jensen was nabbed trying to slide off left 
tackle, and Captain Lothrop stepped back to the thirty 
and held out his hands. When the ball came he plunged 
straight ahead and got four through the center. Tom 
Kemble reported and Whitemill went off. Tom went 
back to kick. Higgs passed badly and the ball reached 
him on the ground. There was no time to straighten 
up and get the kick off, for Wolcott was piling through 
on him. So Tom thumped the ball to his stomach and 
started off to the right. He dodged one enemy, 
squirmed free of another, turned sharply in, twisted 
270 



WATTLES AGREES 


and turned and finally went down. He had added three 
yards, but three was not enough. 

Wolcott decided to punt out of danger on first down 
and James went back to the four yards. This time it 
was the Wolcott center who offended, and the ball 
reached the fullback above his head. He caught it, 
but both Lothrop and Weldon had broken through 
and were bearing down on him on each side. The 
ball went no farther than Weldon’s upflung arm and 
then bounded back. James was down, but a Wolcott 
halfback won the race to the ball, picked it up on the 
bound and sought to circle the goal. Dave Lothrop 
brought him down just short of the line and Wyndham 
had a safety, two points to flaunt against Wolcott’s 
three! 

Wolcott kicked from the thirty-yard line, and the 
quarter ended after Kemble had caught on his own 
thirty-two and carried the ball to the thirty-seven. 

For the last period Wyndham had the wind against 
her, but it was now little more than a strong breeze, 
and occasionally the big brown flag above the grand¬ 
stand fell limply about the staff. More changes were 
made by Mr. Babcock. Archer went back at left and 
Carlson at center. Raiford took Weldon’s place, 
Sproule went in at right half and “Swede” Hanbury 
relieved Ogden. Wyndham made four changes in her 
line, sending back three veterans of the first half, and 
introduced a fresh quarter. 

Wyndham reached midfield on six plays, only to 
lose the ball when Sproule fumbled. Wolcott was then 
271 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


first down on her own forty-eight yards. On the first 
play a penalty for holding set her back to her thirty- 
three. A long pass over the right end went astray 
and a second attempt on the other side was no more 
successful. James punted short and the ball went out 
at Wyndham’s forty-seven. Breeze was taken off and 
Clem Henning succeeded him at right guard. Sproule 
got free outside tackle and took the ball to the oppo¬ 
nent’s forty-one. Hanbury made three and then four 
over right tackle. Kemble was thrown for a loss on 
an attempt at the Wolcott left end and Hanbury punted. 
The ball went over and was brought back to the twenty. 

Wolcott was playing for time now, satisfied, it 
seemed, with her one-point lead. She made it first 
down on her thirty-two with a short and unexpected 
forward toss and then, faking a second throw, tore 
through Henning for six. Hanbury, who made the 
tackle, was hurt and time was called. Presently he 
went off, assisted, and Johnny Thayer raced on. Wol¬ 
cott struck a snag on the next play and lost two yards. 
A forward-pass over left guard grounded, after being 
juggled by half the players, and James kicked. Again 
the punt fell short and the ball was Wyndham’s on her 
forty-four yards. Raiford gave way to “Wink” Coles 
and Couch to Clif Bingham. 

The Blue crossed the half-way mark on two plays 
with Johnny Thayer carrying, each play a fake cross¬ 
buck in which the halfbacks went outside tackle and 
the fullback drove straight through guard. Wyndham 
had used few split interference plays so far and Wol- 
272 




WATTLES AGREES 


cott was easy prey; Johnny got four yards through 
right guard and seven through left. Kemble crashed 
at left tackle for three more and then went outside the 
same player for four. Thayer added two through 
center, and, with less than one to go on fourth down, 
Houston cut through left guard for the distance. 
Sproule again got loose around his left and reached 
the enemy’s twenty-six before he was forced over the 
line. Thayer made two and Kemble two and Houston 
went back to kicking position. The play was a short 
pass, however, and Clif, on the catching end, failed to 
get his fingers on it. Time was called for Captain 
Dave and, after Dan Farrell had worked over him, 
Wyndham took a two-yard penalty, Captain Dave stay¬ 
ing in. Houston took a good pass from Carlson and 
got the ball away cleanly, but it fell short of the bar. 

Time was growing short and the figures on the 
scoreboard looked to be final. James punted on first 
down and put the oval down near the opponent’s forty- 
five, his longest punt of the day. Tom Kemble mis¬ 
judged and Houston got the ball on the bound and 
was thrown savagely on his thirty-six. Time was again 
called, and when play was resumed, Stoddard was back 
at quarter. Wolcott had seized the opportunity to 
bolster up her line with a new tackle and end on the 
left. Stoddard used a fake cross-buck again and 
Thayer found a wide hole at the left of center and 
romped through for twelve yards. On a similar play 
he was downed on the line. There were two minutes 
left. 


273 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


Kemble tried the end and made a yard and Sproule 
had no better luck off tackle. Kemble went back and 
hurled across the center to Stoddard for eight yards 
and a first down. With Kemble back again, the ball 
went to Thayer, and Johnny got six on a sweep around 
right end before he was smothered. Sproule and then 
Kemble hit right guard and made it first down 
again. The ball was on Wolcott’s thirty-one yards 
and there was just under a minute of playing 
time left. 

Captain Lothrop went out, cheered to the echo, and 
Smythe took his place. Ellison went in for Carlson 
and Treader for Sproule. Wyndham was still cheer¬ 
ing valiantly, hopefully. Treader, squandering all the 
pent-up energy and longing of the afternoon in one 
brief instant, dashed himself fiercely at the enemy’s 
right and squirmed and fought through to the twenty- 
six. Wyndham roared in triumph and automobile 
horns sounded raucously. 

“Touchdown! Touchdown!'' chanted Wyndham, 
while Wolcott implored her warriors to “Hold 'em! 
Hold 'em! Hold 'em!” Then Tom again went back 
and the visiting cheerers changed their slogan. “Kick 
that goal! Kick that goal!*' was the cry now. Out 
on the field the effect was only of so much sound, con¬ 
fused, meaningless, and Houston had to shout high 
to be heard. 

“30, 87, 2y!" 

Archer swung away from the line and ran back 
toward his own goal. Tom held his long arms out. 

274 




WATTLES AGREES 


The timers watch told twenty seconds left. The sig¬ 
nal came again: 

"50, 87 —■" 

The ball left Ellison and sped back to Tom. Archer 
swung to the left and crossed behind. Tom, too, was 
running that way now, the ball before him, and so 
were Treader and Houston, and so carefully were they 
spaced that not one of the enemy save the left end saw 
the ball pass from Tom to Archer behind that moving 
screen. But that left end, coming through inside Clif 
Bingham, was not able to use his knowledge to advan¬ 
tage, for Treader crashed into him and he went down, 
sprawling in the path of the runners. The Wolcott 
right end, speeding around, met Thayer, and that fact 
kept him, too, forever out of the play. Treader and 
Houston swept on around the right, but Tom, slacken¬ 
ing speed, tarried while Archer, still running toward 
the side-line, found his position for the throw. Then 
a Wolcott tackle came plunging up, and Tom had his 
work cut out for him. As he and the brown-stockinged 
foe met, Archer dropped his right arm behind his shoul¬ 
der, swept it forward again and threw, straight and 
hard, down the field from the thirty-six yards. 

No one had seriously interfered with Clif when the 
ball had been snapped. Dodging wide, he had let the 
Wolcott left end past inside him. Then, warily, as 
though only desirous of avoiding the rough encounters 
behind, he sped none too hurriedly across three white 
marks. The Wolcott left halfback started toward him, 
but after one stride changed his course. To him the 
275 





THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


play was what it seemed, a fake kick and a wide sweep 
about the left of his line, and he hurried up to get into 
it. Midway between the five-yard-line and the ten Clif 
stopped and swung about. If the play had been timed 
right the ball should be already on its way. It was. 
So, too, was the Wolcott quarterback, and, further 
away, others. But the ball came faster than they, and 
it came true. 

Clif set himself, held his hands out for it, felt it 
thump into them, tightened his clutch about it, turned 
and ran. There was but one white mark to cross before 
the goal-line, and he had spurned it before the enemy 
reached him. Then came the supreme test. The Wol¬ 
cott quarterback launched himself forward, but Clif 
had anticipated the tackle by the fraction of a second. 
He twisted to the right, perilously close to the side-line, 
spun, saw the enemy go sprawling past, hands clutch¬ 
ing, emptily, leaped the falling body and was safe. 
There was the last white streak a stride away and he 
had crossed it before the second enemy reached him, 
crossed it and dropped to earth, the battered ball held 
tightly wrapped in his arms! 

The Wyndham Team held its banquet on Wednes¬ 
day night at the Inn. There were many speeches made 
and many songs sung, and a whole batch of congratu¬ 
latory messages were read by Captain Dave. There 
was one from Coach Otis and another from “Big Bill” 
Fargo amongst them. Nearly forty persons occupied 
the three big tables that had been placed end to end, 
276 




WATTLES AGREES 


but all were not team members. Besides the coaches, 
and Dan Farrell, the trainer, and Mr. Frost, repre¬ 
senting the Faculty, there was a boy in a wheel chair. 
Several speakers of the evening had done their best to 
embarrass this guest; notably Mr. Babcock who had 
gone into sickening details in his account of how 
Wyndham had spiked Wolcott's guns. But Loring 
bore up very well, for, after all, he was only human, 
and he had done his bit toward that 8 to 3 victory. 
They sang that charming ditty “We Beat Her” several 
times, though now the last line had been altered to 
“And what we did last Saturday we’ll do again next 
fall!” And finally they sang “Shadowed Walls,” all 
standing, and cheered for Wyndham—the long cheer 
with nine booming “Wyndhams’’ on the end—and 
broke up. 

Wattles, waiting outside the door, took charge of 
Loring, and the wheel chair trundled along Oak Street 
with Clif on one side and Tom on the other. Ahead 
of them and behind echoes of the evening sounded. 
Carlson and Jensen, arms entwined, confided to a star- 
sprinkled sky that “We beat her back in T6.” Farther 
behind a cheer arose. Tom, who had emptied the con¬ 
tents of a dish into a pocket before leaving, shared 
salted nuts with the others. Wattles’s refusal to par¬ 
take availed him nothing. Tom stopped traffic while 
he filled Wattles’s mouth, and for some distance Wat¬ 
tles couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to. 

“Wonder who they’ll elect Saturday,” mused Clif 
a moment later. 


277 



THE FIGHTING SCRUB 


“Houston or Ogden,” said Tom. “Say, look here, 
you fellows! Here’s something I’ve had on my mind 
for days. How—” 

“Where did you say you’d had it, Tom?” asked 
Loring. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you right.” 

“Shut up. Say, how many of the old Scrub fellows 
do you think were on the team when we made that 
touchdown?” 

“Four,” said Loring. “You, Clif, Thayer—” 

“Wrong, old son! Five! Count’em! Five! Clem 
Henning—” 

“Oh, well,” objected Clif, “he was off the Scrub 
long before—’’ 

“Doesn’t matter! And who won their old game, any¬ 
way? Why, the old Scrub won it! Henning was right 
guard, ‘Wink’ was right tackle, Johnny took the pass 
from center, Clif made the touchdown and I—er— 
supervised it! Now, then, I ask you, who won the old 
ball game?” 

Three voices answered loudly, proudly and in chorus 
“The Fighting Scrub!” And— 

“Hooray!” said Wattles, still articulating with diffi¬ 
culty. “Quite so, sir!” 

(i) 


THE END 














BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR 


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